


Courage

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Psychological Torture, Rape, Rape Aftermath, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 24,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: (Please note title change: previous title was "Soft")Ten years after the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell want to punish Aziraphale and Crowley for their treason.  Gabriel decides that the perfect way to punish both of them is to torture Aziraphale and force Crowley to watch; Hell agrees to the plan.  Aziraphale and Crowley are kidnapped from their South Downs cottage and taken to a neutral location; Aziraphale is tortured and raped and Crowley is forced to watch; they are then returned home, Aziraphale critically injured.This is the Prologue (the first three chapters; all of the violence is confined to chapter 2, which can be skipped).The real story begins in chapter 4; it’s the story of how Aziraphale and Crowley recover from the trauma.  They are both profoundly traumatized; it takes a long time, but they work through it together, and their marriage recovers.  There will be a happy ending.Aziraphale and Crowley heal each other.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 288
Kudos: 363
Collections: Anon Works, Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous, Hurt Aziraphale





	1. Prologue: Part 1

They had had ten years. Ten blissful years of marriage, of conversation and argument, of food and drink and laughter, of companionship and fun, of music and theatre and books and gardening, of love-making and ecstasy. At first, they’d been wary, always looking over their shoulders. But as time went by, their vigilance relaxed. They began to believe that they really would be left alone.

Until the day that there was a knock on the door of their South Downs cottage, and they opened it, with no fear, and before they had even registered that it was not one of the neighbors as they’d assumed, they had both been knocked unconscious. 

When Crowley regained consciousness he was immediately aware of being bound, but not with ropes. He was metaphysically bound. Only a higher-ranking angel or demon could do that, and only to a lower-ranking angel or demon who was already unconscious. They’d bound him while he was out. Crowley was sitting now, but his corporation was paralyzed. Only his eye muscles could move, but that didn’t help, since he was blindfolded. Aziraphale was nearby, he could feel his husband’s presence. He could feel the presence of many other angels and demons too. He focused on sound, listening for echoes. They were in a large room, not outdoors, but the space was large, and it was crowded. 

Then he heard Gabriel’s voice. Crowley hated that voice. He’d gone to Heaven in Aziraphale’s body and heard how Gabriel spoke to him, how Gabriel treated him. Of every being in existence, Gabriel was the one Crowley would most have liked to kill. 

“So,” Gabriel said, sounding so fucking pleased with himself. “So. This angel, and this demon, took it upon themselves to stop Armageddon, thinking they understood the Great Plan better than their superiors do. They must be punished. Severely.”

Crowley could not speak any more than he could move, but if he had been able to speak, he would have been begging. _Please, punish me, but don’t punish Aziraphale. Please, please, please don’t punish Aziraphale. Please. I’ll do anything. Please. Please don’t punish him. Please._

“But here’s the problem,” Gabriel continued his speech. “Obviously, they need to suffer. But the demon is Fallen. He’s already suffered. Nothing could be done to him that’s worse than what he’s already endured. And the angel – well, we can’t force the angel to Fall. Only the Almighty can do that.” There was annoyance and frustration in Gabriel’s voice. Clearly, he had assumed that God would force Aziraphale to Fall, and he couldn’t comprehend why that hadn’t happened. 

“So,” Gabriel went on, “we were stymied, for a while. But then,” Gabriel’s voice grew even more pompous, if that was possible. “Then, we had a flash of inspiration. The demon is evil, yes, but he’s tough, that’s the problem. But he does have one weakness. His weakness is the angel. And the angel is soft. He’s weak. He’s a coward. He can’t stand pain. So, we have the solution. We punish the angel with physical pain. Extreme physical pain,” he underlined, with sadistic glee in his voice. “And we force the demon to watch.”

_No. No. No. No. Please no. Please no. Please no. Please no._

The blindfold was pulled from Crowley’s eyes. He blinked in the harsh light. They were in a torture chamber, with a crowd of demons on one side and a crowd of angels on the other. Gabriel and Sandalphon were in front of the crowd of angels, Beelzebub and Hastur in front of the crowd of demons. He and Aziraphale were in the middle. Crowley was sitting, fully clothed. Aziraphale was standing, only a few feet away from him, not moving, clearly bound as well. Aziraphale was still blindfolded, and he was naked. 

_No. Please, no._

Gabriel gestured to the crowd. “Heaven and Hell are cooperating to punish these two traitors. The angel will be tortured, and the demon will watch. We have all agreed that it is the perfect punishment for both of them.” Gabriel smiled, triumphant, and proclaimed, “It’s a win-win solution!”

Hastur stepped forward, impatient. “Unbind the angel. We want to hear him scream and see him struggle.”

_No. Please, no._

Gabriel smiled. “Of course,” he said, and with one motion of Gabriel’s hand Aziraphale was no longer paralyzed. As soon as Aziraphale could move, he began trembling.

Gabriel stalked over to him, circled him. He turned to the assembled angels, to the assembled demons, and to Crowley. “Look at him,” he said. “He’s terrified. He’s a coward. He’s soft.” Gabriel reached out and touched Aziraphale's stomach, invasively. Aziraphale flinched. Gabriel laughed. “He’s soft and fat and weak. He’s going to be begging for mercy in no time.” 

Gabriel pulled Aziraphale's blindfold off. Aziraphale did not look at Crowley. He looked down. 

_Was that shame on his face? No. No. No. Surely he knows better than to listen to Gabriel. He knows Gabriel is a sadistic prick. He has reason to be afraid, but he has no reason to be ashamed. Please, please, please let him know that. Please._ He tried desperately to catch Aziraphale’s eye, to somehow communicate his love and support, but Aziraphale refused to meet his eyes. 

_Please, Angel. Please. Please don’t listen to the creep. Please know how much I love you. Please._

Chains were lowered from the ceiling. Sandalphon went over to Aziraphale. “Hold out your hands,” he ordered. Aziraphale obeyed, immediately. Crowley realized that Aziraphale probably knew there was no point in fighting, better to save his strength...and yet, Aziraphale’s obedience, the politeness, the deference with which his husband held out his hands to be manacled...Crowley’s heart broke. 

With one sharp jerk, Aziraphale was hung from the ceiling by his wrists, his feet off the floor. Aziraphale gasped. The manacles were too tight, cutting into his wrists. Blood started trickling down his arms. Aziraphale closed his eyes. He still had not looked at Crowley.

_Please, God. Please. I know you hate me. But you love him. Or you should love him. He’s the most lovable creature you ever made. Please don’t let this happen to him. Please. Please put me in his place. Please put me in his place. Please put me in his place. Please, God. Please. Please. Please._

But God, as usual, was not listening.


	2. Prologue: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning:  
> This chapter has graphic depictions of extreme violence, torture, castration, and rape.  
> You can skip this chapter if you prefer. But please note that while the actual violence is confined to this chapter, there will be flashbacks and references throughout the rest of the story, and eventually Aziraphale and Crowley will talk about what happened here.

“Soften him up,” commanded Beelzebub. 

Gabriel smirked. “He’s already soft.”

Beelzebub gestured towards Hastur. Hastur picked up a metal rod and began to beat Aziraphale with it, slowly and systematically, breaking bones. Aziraphale gasped at the first blow, clenched his teeth, clearly trying to be silent, his face contorted in pain. 

The beating continued. Aziraphale cried out. 

When most of Aziraphale’s bones were broken, Hastur switched to a whip. Aziraphale’s cries continued. When all of Aziraphale’s skin was covered in whip-weals and blood was dripping onto the floor, Hastur brought out a scourge with sharp metal tips that tore the angel’s flesh off in strips. Aziraphale fainted. Sandalphon woke him up, and Hastur continued the beating. Aziraphale screamed. The scourging went on and on and on. Aziraphale fainted over and over and over again. Sandalphon kept waking him. Aziraphale’s cries grew weaker. 

Sandalphon dropped him to the floor. The collision hit every one of the angel’s broken bones. Aziraphale passed out again. Sandalphon woke him up again. Aziraphale lay on the floor, his limbs splayed at unnatural angles, covered in blood, bits of his flesh floating in the blood rapidly pooling around him. 

“Gabriel, heal him, he’s going to discorporate from blood loss,” said Beelzebub. 

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “I’ll get rid of the...gross matter...as well.” He healed Aziraphale and miracled away the spilled blood and torn flesh. 

Aziraphale lay on the floor, shaking. 

Sandalphon kicked him. “Turn over.” Aziraphale obeyed, turning over onto his back, still shaking. 

Gabriel looked at him appraisingly. He turned to Beelzebub. “Since he makes an effort for his...” – his face twisted in disgust and contempt – “...‘husband’...why don't we cut it off?”

_No. Please no. Please no. Please no. Please no. Please no._

Beelzebub nodded. 

“Spread your legs,” ordered Gabriel. To Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale obeyed. He was cringing in fear, but he obeyed. 

Hastur brought the metal rod out again and raised it. Instinctively, Aziraphale pulled his legs together. Four demons held his legs apart. Hastur smashed the metal rod down onto Aziraphale’s effort, over and over over and over again. Aziraphale passed out again. Sandalphon woke him up again. Hastur took a blunt knife and began cutting, very, very slowly. 

Aziraphale’s screams tore through the air. 

When Aziraphale was unconscious again and his effort had been separated from the rest of his corporation, Gabriel healed him again, and got rid of the “gross matter” again, too.

Crowley looked down at his own body and had a moment of blank incomprehension, wondering why he himself wasn’t bleeding, for surely Aziraphale’s screams had torn him open? 

Sandalphon woke Aziraphale up again. 

Gabriel looked at Aziraphale thoughtfully. He turned to Sandalphon. “Do you remember Edward II?” 

Aziraphale cried out in fear. 

Sandalphon smiled. 

Beelzebub nodded at Hastur.

Hastur looked confused. Beelzebub rolled their eyes. “Stick a red-hot poker up his arse, idiot.” 

“He does like to be buggered by a demon,” supplied Sandalphon.

Hastur laughed. 

_No. No. No. No. No. They can’t do that. They can’t. They can’t. They can’t. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No._

Crowley was suddenly aware that the “no” was not just his interior monologue. Aziraphale was begging.

“No,” Aziraphale begged, “No. Please, if you have any decency, any decency at all, please have mercy. Please.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

The demons heated the poker.

Aziraphale cowered in terror. 

_Please, God. Please don’t let them do this to him. Please. Please. Please. I’ll do anything. Anything at all. Spare him this. Please, God. Please._

Hastur showed the red-hot poker to Aziraphale, laughing. He played with Aziraphale, holding the poker so close that Aziraphale could feel its heat, then pulling it away again. Aziraphale was sobbing. Hastur kept laughing, kept taunting.

Aziraphale panicked. His wings manifested in self-defense, powerful wings beating frantically, knocking demons across the room. 

“Fuck,” swore Beelzebub. “Break his wings.”

It took eight demons to hold the terrified, desperately struggling angel down while Hastur broke his wings. Aziraphale screamed. The demons flipped him onto his stomach, spread his legs, spread his buttocks. Aziraphale gibbered, “No, please, no, please, no, please, no, no, no, no, no, no” - the last “no” turned into a piercing scream of agony as Hastur inserted the red-hot poker into Aziraphale’s anus and began forcing it further and further and further into his body. 

Aziraphale screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. And then, very suddenly he stopped screaming, and made a choking gurgling sound that was worse than the screams, and blood poured from his nose and mouth, and his body convulsed and went still.

“You hit his lungs, idiot,” snapped Beelzebub. “Pull it out.” 

Hastur pulled the poker out. Some of Aziraphale’s intestines came out with it. 

Gabriel healed him, and tidied up, a third time. Gabriel disliked gross matter. 

Sandalphon once again forced Aziraphale back to consciousness. 

As soon as he was conscious again, Aziraphale made a high, keening sound, and then he was sobbing again, sobbing and begging, begging, begging. “Please, no more. Please, no more. Please, no more. No more, no more, no more, no more, please, no more.” 

Hastur kicked him. “Shut up or you get another red-hot poker up the arse,” he said. Aziraphale was immediately silent, shaking in terror.

Gabriel laughed. “Look at him, shaking like a bowl full of jelly. He’s pathetic.” 

Beelzebub sighed. “Give him another beating.” 

They chained him up again, hanging him from the ceiling by his wrists again. They beat him again, but now his wings were out, and they beat his wings, too, breaking the bones, again. They dislocated his shoulders. They tore his flesh, again. Aziraphale’s screams and sharp, gasping cries grew weaker and weaker. He passed out again and again and again. They dropped him to the floor again. He was covered in blood, but it wasn’t pooling around him, he was in no immediate danger of discorporation. 

Hastur got another red-hot poker and touched it to Aziraphale’s broken body, burning him, again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again. Aziraphale gibbered and screamed and sobbed and struggled, weakly. 

It took Sandalphon a long time to force him back to consciousness. 

Gabriel considered the shuddering, writhing angel. “He does like to be buggered by a demon...”

“We’re not buggering him,” Beelzebub said. 

Gabriel smiled. “No. Would you mind if we do?” 

“Whatever,” said Beelzebub. 

“First let me fix it so he can’t pass out again,” said Sandalphon. He touched Aziraphale’s temple. 

Aziraphale cried.

The demons forced Aziraphale’s legs grotesquely far apart, deliberately dislocating his hips. They held him down as first Gabriel and then Sandalphon thrust into him, violently, cruelly, sadistically, inflicting as much pain as possible not just with the penetration but with the jostling and jarring of broken bones and dislocated joints and torn and burned flesh. 

When they were finally finished, Aziraphale lay there, crumpled, bleeding, broken arms, legs, and wings askew, fluttering and quivering and making a weak cry like an animal caught in a trap.

Hastur beat him more, as he lay on the floor. Aziraphale was too weak to struggle or scream. His body twitched and jerked with every blow, and he kept making that strange, weak, animal cry. 

“Enough!” said Beelzebub. “We want him to be in pain for a long time to come. We’re not healing him again. Stop before he discorporates.” 

Reluctantly, Hastur stopped. 

Gabriel walked around Aziraphale, looking down at him with disdain, then reached down and put a hand on him. Then he looked at Crowley. “I’ve fixed it so you can’t heal him.” He straightened up. “I hope you realize how worthless this thing is. I don’t know why you waste your time on him. He’s not an angel. You’re Fallen, you’re evil, but him? He’s NOTHING.” 

“We’re done here,” said Beelzebub. “I’m taking them home now.” 

Gabriel shrugged, spat in Aziraphale’s face, and was gone. 

In a flash, they were back in the cottage. Beelzebub stood in front of Crowley and looked at him with something that might almost have been pity in their eyes. “I had no choice. I would have had mutiny on my hands if I hadn’t agreed. But it’s over now. Keep your heads down, and we’ll leave you alone.” Beelzebub glanced upward. “They’ll leave you alone, too,” they said. “They never do their own dirty work.” 

They knelt next to Aziraphale, passed a hand over his torso, then stood up. “I stopped the internal bleeding and healed his arse. You’ll be able to fuck him again, someday, though I don’t know why he’d ever let you, after this. But that’s all I can do. I can’t risk anything more than that, and if Gabriel ever finds out he’ll make us all pay.” Beelzebub paused. “The rest of his injuries will heal naturally, with time. You can make him sleep, that might help. You’ll be able to move as soon as I’m gone.” 

Beelzebub nodded and was gone, and Crowley was unbound.


	3. Prologue: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 from Aziraphale's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter was originally chapter 4; I switched chapters 3 and 4 to make it clearer.

“So. This angel, and this demon, took it upon themselves to stop Armageddon, thinking they understood the Great Plan better than their superiors do. They must be punished. Severely.” 

Aziraphale could not speak any more than he could move, but if he had been able to speak, he would have been begging. _Please, punish me, but don’t punish Crowley. Please, please, please don’t punish Crowley. Please. I’ll do anything. Please. Please don’t punish him. Please._

“His weakness is the angel. And the angel is soft. He’s weak. He’s a coward. He can’t stand pain. So, we have the solution. We punish the angel with physical pain. Extreme physical pain. And we force the demon to watch.” 

Aziraphale was flooded with relief. They weren’t going to hurt Crowley. _Oh, thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

But he was afraid.

As soon as he could move, his body betrayed him and began trembling.

And Crowley would witness. Crowley would see. Crowley would know.

He’d never told Crowley.

He couldn’t bear for Crowley to know.

*

When they Fell, they screamed. He’d closed his eyes, knowing he was disobeying the order to watch, knowing he would answer for his disobedience, but too much of a coward to look. Always a coward. But he heard. He always heard. He hadn’t known Crowley, then, hadn’t known the angel who would become Crowley. But they had all screamed. All of them. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still hear the echo of those screams. 

When they were wounded in battle, they screamed. There were stories of honor and glory, but the stories were lies. There was no honor, there was no glory. There were only boys crying for their mothers as they died. Sometimes, he was allowed to ease the pain. 

When they were martyred, they screamed. He’d learned to keep his eyes open. He’d learned that people could be reduced to their bodies. There were stories of faith and courage, but the stories were lies. Faith and courage died before the body. There was only pain he was forbidden to ease. 

When they suffered, they screamed. There were stories of how the victims deserved their fate. There were stories of how the righteous had nothing to fear. But the stories were lies, and suffering reduced people to itself, and all the screams sounded the same. 

They’d screamed in his arms, sometimes, as he held them, as he comforted them, as he tended them, doing everything he was allowed to do to help them, but no more than he was allowed, because he was a coward. _(They’d screamed, when they Fell)._

*

Crowley had Fallen. Crowley had courage. Aziraphale had none. 

Aziraphale was soft and weak and a coward. 

Aziraphale had never stopped hearing the screams. 

Aziraphale was soft and weak and a coward. 

All Aziraphale wanted was for no one to ever have any reason to scream, any reason at all. All Aziraphale wanted was for no one to ever have any reason to scream, ever again. 

Aziraphale was soft and weak and a coward. 

He closed his eyes and prayed, “Please, God. Please let me be brave. Please don’t let him see my weakness. Please let me be brave for him. Please let me be brave. Please let me be brave. Please let me be brave. Please, God. Please.”

But when he felt the first blow, he knew his prayer would go unanswered.


	4. Shelter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter was originally chapter 3; I switched chapter 3 and chapter 4 to make it clearer.

Who had stopped time? Crowley hadn’t stopped time, had he? But time had stopped. Hadn’t time stopped? They were in the cottage. But it was all wrong, somehow. Everything looked the same but...where were they? The cottage. Aziraphale’s book were on the shelves. That was strange. Hadn’t someone burned the books? No, that wasn’t the cottage. But the books had been burned. Hadn’t the books been burned? 

Where were they? The cottage. It was all wrong. Everything was in its place. It was all wrong. 

There was a crumpled form at his feet. No, it wasn’t the books that were hurt. It wasn’t the books.

Aziraphale had been dropped into the room like a sack of potatoes. He’d landed next to the coffee table. His wings were broken. His left wing had landed over the coffee table. He was bleeding onto the carpet. Aziraphale liked the carpet. Aziraphale had spilled his wine on the carpet, once, and been upset with himself even after Crowley had miracled the stain away. Aziraphale wouldn’t want blood on the carpet. 

There was a candle on the coffee table. They’d lit it, the night before – how long ago was that? He didn’t know. A long time. (Who had stopped time?) They’d sat on the sofa together, snuggling, watching the flame. The candle was out now. Aziraphale’s broken left wing was over the candle, as though sheltering it. 

_“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?”  
“Uh...”  
“You did. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”  
“Uh...”  
“Lost it already have you?”  
“Gave it away.”  
“You what?”  
“I gave it away! There are vicious animals. And it’s going to be cold out there, and she’s expecting already, and I said, “Here you go, flaming sword, don’t thank me, and don’t let the sun go down on you here. Oh, I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing.”  
“Oh, you’re an angel, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”  
“Oh, oh, thank you, oh, thank you. It’s been bothering me.”  
“I’ve been worrying too. What if I did the right thing with the whole, ‘Eat the apple’ business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing. It’d be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one?”  
“No! It wouldn’t be funny at all!”  
“Well-”  
The rain began, and Aziraphale sheltered Crowley with his wing._

Crowley was on his knees, vomiting. He had nothing in his stomach. He vomited bile. Aziraphale would not be happy about the carpet. He would be sure to miracle the stain away before Aziraphale found out. He’d miracle the blood away too. There was so much blood. Aziraphale liked the carpet. 

There was so much blood. There was the sound of ragged breathing. Aziraphale was conscious. Why was he conscious? He shouldn’t be conscious. Sandalphon. Sandalphon had made it so he couldn’t lose consciousness. Aziraphale was conscious. But Crowley could...Crowley could...

What could Crowley do? 

The books were burning. Weren’t the books burning? 

No. The books weren’t burning. It wasn’t the books that were hurt. 

Aziraphale. Aziraphale was conscious. 

_He’s in agony. You’re the one who’s a coward. Help him. Help him. Help him._

He crawled to his husband’s side. Aziraphale’s skin was grey. His face was wet. Gabriel had spat on him. Or was it tears? He had cried, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he cried? Aziraphale’s eyes were dull and glazed. There was blood trickling from his nose and mouth. There was blood everywhere. His mouth kept opening and closing like a fish out of water, but no sound came out. His body was twitching and shuddering. 

Any touch would cause additional pain. 

Crowley could. Yes, Crowley could. 

Crowley gathered his courage. 

Crowley manifested his wings.

_Please, God. Please._

He put his fingers to Aziraphale’s temples and kissed his forehead. “Sleep,” he whispered. “Sleep. My angel, my husband, my love. Sleep, and feel no pain.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered closed and his trembling ceased. 

As soon as he was certain the angel was unconscious and the movement wouldn’t hurt him, Crowley pulled Aziraphale to his chest, enfolding him in his wings.

Gently, Crowley wiped Gabriel’s saliva away, and then washed Aziraphale’s face with his own tears as he cradled his husband’s broken body in his arms.


	5. Flesh and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter has references to the explicit violence in chapter 2, and also explicit description of injuries and medical treatment.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, to take a fucking Pietà moment when Aziraphale needed a doctor, not a sobbing wreck. 

_Stop crying. Now. Get it the fuck together. Now._

_I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._

_You must. You will. Do it. Now._

He couldn’t heal Aziraphale. Gabriel had put a block around Aziraphale’s injuries, making them impervious to Crowley’s healing abilities. Beelzebub, as powerful as Gabriel, could override the block; Crowley, less powerful, could not. The block would wear off, eventually, but not for many months. 

Crowley couldn’t heal Aziraphale with miracles. But he could help Aziraphale in the human way. 

He’d treated injuries in the human way before. Six thousand years on earth surrounded by suffering humans. Times when he’d been unwilling to risk using his demonic powers for healing, but wanted to do something to help the poor buggers. So he’d taught himself a bit. Enjoyed the challenge of working out how to fix human bodies without resorting to miracles. Fun puzzle to solve. 

Aziraphale had taught himself, too. They’d both been relieved when human medicine finally developed to the point where it did actually help. In the latter half of the 20th century they’d both become quite adept at human medicine. Miracling medical supplies was less likely to draw unwanted attention from either Heaven or Hell than miraculous healing, so they’d made the equipment and used their skills. (Aziraphale had cried, once, a few years after the world didn’t end, about the AIDS epidemic and all he could have done, “If only I weren’t such a coward.” Crowley had comforted his husband, of course, but ignored the bit about cowardice since it was so patently absurd. Surely Aziraphale was far too clever to believe something so obviously ridiculous.) 

Crowley knew what he had to do, and he knew he had to do it now. 

But doctoring some random human was not the same as doctoring Aziraphale.

_I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._

_You must. You will. Do it. Now._

Crowley was two people now. The Crowley who knew what had to be done took the Crowley who wouldn’t stop crying, marched him into a vault somewhere deep in his mind, and slammed the door. 

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

Move him? Yes. Don’t want to have to move him later. Pick him up and carry him to the bedroom, leave a trail of blood on the floor, must miracle away, remember to do that, make mental note, put him down on the bed, blood on the duvet, so much blood, so much blood, open fractures. _Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

The Crowley in charge added another layer to the vault in his mind where he'd locked the wailing idiot, and proceeded to do what he had to do. 

Weak, thready pulse. Shallow, rapid breathing. Cold, grey skin. Blue lips and fingernails. Aziraphale was in deep shock. 

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

Fluid. Oxygen. Normally an angel needed neither, but without access to miraculous healing an angel in hypovolemic shock would need both, fast. Crowley miracled an IV and an oxygen mask. Took him five tries to start the IV because his stupid hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

Stop the bleeding. So much blood. Internal bleeding? No. Beelzebub had stopped the internal bleeding. 

_“I stopped the internal bleeding and healed his arse.”_

They’d torn him open. Gabriel and Sandalphon had torn him open. _So much blood._

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

So many wounds still bleeding. Open fractures. So many broken bones. Stop the bleeding. _So much blood._

Clean wounds. Bandage. 

The burns. Oh, God, the burns. The burns. The burns. 

_The sound of sizzling. The smell of Aziraphale’s flesh burning. The screams. Oh, God. The screams._

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Focus. Focus. Focus._

Treat the burns. Treat the injuries. Bandage.

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

Deep wounds. Needed stitches. So much torn flesh. So much to suture. 

The Crowley locked in the vault screamed as the Crowley doing the suturing sewed his husband’s flesh, so the Crowley doing the suturing sound-proofed the door. _Shut the fuck up, idiot._

Check vitals. Check IV. Check oxygen. Check sutures. Bleeding stopped. Burns treated. Bandages on. 

Blood. He’d lost so much blood. But while neither Heaven nor Hell were willing to admit it, angelic and demonic blood were the exact same substance, no difference at all. Not like human blood, no blood types. Just one substance. 

Crowley transfused his own blood into Aziraphale. So much easier to stick a needle into his own arm than into Aziraphale’s. 

So many broken bones.

He’d only ever set human bones before. Neither Heaven nor Hell cared about non-human life (and they only cared about human life as pawns in their battle), so healing birds and beasts wasn’t risky, they’d always just miracled, never needed to learn to do anything else. 

Angel bones, like demon bones, hollow. Bird bones. Broken wings. _(Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.)_ How the fuck to set broken wings? Internet. Website on veterinary medicine taught him to set broken wings. Good thing he could miracle huge bandages. _(Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.)_

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

Reduction of dislocated joints. Setting of broken bones. Some bones shattered. Needed pins and plates. _(Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.)_

Clean away dried blood. So much on his rectum. _(They tore him open. Gabriel and Sandalphon tore him open. They tore him open when they – )_

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

Beelzebub healed those injuries.

_“I stopped the internal bleeding and healed his arse. You’ll be able to fuck him again, someday, though I don’t know why he’d ever let you, after this.”_

Gabriel had restored his effort _(after they – after they –) (oh, God)_ – not out of mercy, to hurt more _(the scourge had torn him – ) (he’d sutured Aziraphale’s – oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, oh, God)._

The physical injuries would heal. With time. And if they didn’t heal properly, someday Gabriel’s block would wear off, someday they could miracle again, even scar tissue –

Physical scar tissue, they could heal, someday. But soul-scars –

_They cut him. They tore him open. They held him down and they –_

_We’ll never be able to make love in the human way again._

_Don’t think about that now. Focus. Focus. Focus._

But it had been pure joy. Neither of them had ever done it before. The fun, of doing it for the first time, together. Exploring, and experimenting, and laughing at their own incompetence at human sex. And then, little by little, getting better at it, and finding not just fun and pleasure but bliss, communion, ecstasy, union of body and soul...

The reverence with which Aziraphale touched him. The reverence with which he touched Aziraphale. He laughed at himself – a reverent demon! – but he knew that reverence was the only word for what he felt. 

All the times he had entered Aziraphale, tenderly, gently, so careful not to hurt. 

And they’d – they’d – they’d held him down and they’d – they’d – they’d –

_The smell of flesh burning. The screams. The screams. The screams. The screams. The screams._

The Crowley locked in the vault broke free, and Crowley was one person again, on the floor, vomiting, again. 

And then he was screaming. “GOD, ARE YOU LISTENING? HAVE YOU EVER LISTENED? HAVE YOU EVER CARED? HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN TO HIM? HOW COULD YOU LET THEM DO THAT TO HIM? I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!

And then he was sobbing, sobbing, sobbing, sobbing, sobbing. 

And then the thought: people in comas could be aware, could hear. What if Aziraphale was aware of something, what if he could hear something, what if Crowley’s screams had frightened him? 

What if he was scared?

He was so scared. He was so scared. He was so scared. 

_The terror on his face, as they held him down, as they –_

Oh, Aziraphale. 

_That weak, animal cry._

Oh, Aziraphale. Oh, Aziraphale. Oh, Aziraphale. 

He knelt by his husband’s bedside, took his hand, carefully. Aziraphale looked so small, so fragile, so vulnerable, his body covered in bandages and casts, his face covered by the oxygen mask. 

“Oh, Angel. Angel. Angel. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you. I’m here. I’m taking care of you. You’re safe. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And then, because he didn’t know what else to do, he sang. He knew his voice was nothing like the ethereal glory of Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale had told him, so many times, that he loved hearing Crowley sing. If Aziraphale were aware at all, if he could hear at all, if he needed reassurance, if he needed something to anchor him...

...Crowley sang. A Phoenician lullaby. A Sogdian wedding song. A Sumerian drinking song. Gilbert and Sullivan (that time they’d drunkenly sung _H.M.S. Pinafore_ in its entirety together in the bookshop). Funny songs, silly songs, bawdy songs, sea shanties, ballads, love songs. Songs he loved, songs Aziraphale loved, songs they both loved. Songs of the human history they’d witnessed together. Songs of the world they shared, songs of the world they loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thank you to[stripeysheepsocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripeysheepsocks) for medical beta-reading.**


	6. Tending

_Aziraphale would be so much better at this._ Long-term nursing was not Crowley’s forte. He was slowly going out of his mind. Day after day after day after day after day after day after day. Aziraphale needed near-constant care at first, but as time went by and his injuries began to heal, Crowley began to oscillate between boredom and despair. 

He took care of business. He put a glamour (or did the humans today call it a perception filter? Not that they had any idea what the fuck they were talking about) around the house so the neighbors would think he and Aziraphale were away and leave them alone. He wrote notes to friends telling them he and Aziraphale would be traveling for a while. (Aziraphale would consider the brevity of his notes to be bordering on rudeness. Well, there was a reason Aziraphale managed their social life.) It did occur to him to ask for help, but Anathema and Newt had three small children and Adam was in the middle of his term at Oxford and Warlock was in America and Tracy and Shadwell were in Spain, and anyway, he couldn’t cope with humans right now. 

He tended Aziraphale. He sat with him, holding his hand, talking to him, singing to him. When he couldn’t bear the sound of his own voice he played music. When he couldn’t bear music he watched bad telly and complained to Aziraphale about how bad it was. When he couldn’t bear telly he played violent video games with the sound off. No headphones, he needed to hear Aziraphale. No drinking, he needed his head clear. No sleeping, obviously. 

He had panic attacks. He tried to control them. He had flashbacks. He tried to push them away. He vomited. He considered eating just so he would have something other than bile to vomit, but he was too nauseated to eat. He wouldn’t have been able to hold alcohol down even if getting drunk were an option, which it wasn’t. He punched pillows. He didn’t scream. He wouldn’t leave the bedroom, he wouldn’t leave Aziraphale alone. He hated the fucking walls. 

He went online and trolled stupid people. He hacked the London Stock Exchange. He unleashed a virus that made the words, “Climate change is going to be the death of every last one of you stupid humans, wake the fuck up” appear on the screen of every digital device on the planet. He brought down two crap governments. Well, what the fuck did you expect of a fucking demon when his husband was in a fucking coma? 

After nine weeks, Aziraphale began awakening in terror every few days. Crowley started spending all his time in bed with Aziraphale so he could immediately reassure him and put him back to sleep. The oxygen mask seemed to frighten Aziraphale so he switched to a cannula. Aziraphale’s injuries were healing. Crowley couldn’t stop shaking. He wanted to be in snake form and wrap himself around Aziraphale but thought it might remind Aziraphale of being held down. He wondered if he would ever be able to wrap himself around Aziraphale again. He wondered if he would ever stop vomiting. 

After thirteen weeks he wondered if he should let Aziraphale wake up. He couldn’t think clearly anymore. _Had he ever been able to think clearly? Had there ever been anything but this fucking room and these fucking walls?_

He took Aziraphale into his arms and held him. Aziraphale’s body was covered in scars. They could fix that, when Gabriel’s block wore off. Crowley wanted to cry but he had no tears now. He was so tired. He was so tired. He was so tired.

Aziraphale gasped and opened his eyes, starting to thrash in panic. Crowley summoned his strength. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.” He ought to put Aziraphale back to sleep, he really should. No need for him to be awake. He should really put him back to sleep. _He should really – he should really – he should really –_ “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s – 

– Aziraphale was looking at him, and for the first time there was recognition in his eyes. “Crowley?” he whispered. 

For the first time in thirteen weeks, he wasn’t alone. “Yes. I’m here. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale was clearly still disoriented, but the recognition was there.

“Yes. I’m here, Aziraphale. I’m here. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

“Crowley. You sang to me.”

 _Oh, Angel._ “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” 

“Thank you.”

“How do you feel, Sweetheart?”

“Where are we?”

“In the cottage.” 

Aziraphale looked around, wildly, starting to panic again. “Are they – ?” 

“They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re not coming back. It’s all right. You’re safe.” Aziraphale was trembling. He should put him back to sleep. He should really put him back to sleep. He knew he should put him back to sleep. But the voice in his head that told him to put Aziraphale back to sleep didn’t seem to have any control at all. He just kept babbling, “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

“Crowley. Stop it.” 

_What?_

Aziraphale was looking at him. Aziraphale was looking at Crowley, he was focused on Crowley, he was seeing Crowley. “Crowley. My dear. You are not all right.”

“I – ”

“Help me to sit up, please.” Aziraphale was still trembling but his tone was firm. He helped Aziraphale sit up. Aziraphale flinched. Damn. But before he could say anything Aziraphale was asking, “How long has it been?”

“Uh – three months.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I’ve been – ”

“Well, yeah.”

Aziraphale looked around the room. “Three months. Three months here?” 

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Um, well, it took time, to heal, Gabriel – ” Aziraphale started in fear. _Idiot Crowley_ “ – blocked your – your – your – I couldn’t heal you – I had to – had to – had to –” He realized he was shaking.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice broke.

He didn’t know what to say. He was so tired. 

“You’ve been caring for me for three months.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Alone.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You’re exhausted.”

Was he exhausted? What was exhaustion?

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Not since – ” he couldn’t bring himself to say the word, “Before.”

“You need sleep.”

 _I don’t want to sleep. I’ll have nightmares._ “I don’t need sleep.”

“You do now.”

“I do not. Tell me how you feel.”

“I’m fine.”

Crowley didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. “Do you want some water?” he asked.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” 

Crowley helped Aziraphale take a few sips. “Best not have too much too soon. And best to keep the IV in too, for a while more.”

“Very well. You should have some water too, dear.”

 _If I try to consume anything it winds up on the floor._ “No, thanks. Do you want to sleep more?”

“No. I want you to sleep. Now.”

 _How the fuck could he be so stubborn?_ “Aziraphale. You just woke up. You can’t sit up on your own. I’m not sleeping.”

“I will be fine. You need sleep. Now.” 

“No.” _I’ll have nightmares._

Aziraphale gave him a knowing look. “I could give you a dreamless sleep.”

“You can’t – ”

“I can.”

“You’re too weak.” 

Aziraphale flinched. He wondered, vaguely, why. “I’m fine. Lie down, please, Sweetheart.”

When did he ever say no to Aziraphale? He lay down. He wondered if he ought to worry at how much effort it took Aziraphale to move his hands to Crowley’s temples, but he was so tired. He was so tired. 

For a moment, when their minds touched, Crowley felt the yawning abyss of fear that he’d felt every time he’d put Aziraphale to sleep. But almost before he sensed it, it was snatched away, walled off, hidden. He worried, for a moment...

...but then there was nothing but love, the overwhelming power of Aziraphale’s love, surrounding him, enfolding him, cradling him. From far away he heard, “Sleep. My darling. My husband. My love. Sleep, and be not afraid.”

Crowley slept.


	7. Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: flashbacks to chapter 2, suicidal ideation, and extremely disturbed thinking. This is Aziraphale’s point of view; Aziraphale has suffered something that no one anywhere should ever suffer, ever – and he suffered it at the hands of those who abused him for his entire existence. He is profoundly traumatized. 
> 
> It will get better. I promise. 
> 
> Both Aziraphale and Crowley are profoundly traumatized. They love each other, and they will heal each other. 
> 
> The only reason I am writing this story is because I need to see them heal after this unimaginable horror. I need to see them okay. It has to be psychologically realistic, so it will take time. But they will heal, they will be all right, there will be a happy ending. Love heals. Aziraphale and Crowley love each other, and they will heal each other.
> 
> **
> 
> Thank you all for the kind words and comments, everyone. They mean a lot to me. Thank you.
> 
> **

Well, now he knew.

He’d feared, since the Fall. He’d imagined, since the Fall. But he hadn’t known. Now he knew. 

He didn’t know how it was possible for a body to feel such pain. He didn’t know how it was possible, but he knew, now, how it felt. Now, he knew. He’d imagined. He’d feared. Now, he knew. 

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

He knew how it felt, now. Now, he knew.

He’d seen courage and faith die before the body. He hadn’t known why. Now, he knew how it felt. Now, he knew. Now, he understood.

Pain obliterated. 

He tried to find words for what he’d felt. There were none. 

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

Words failed. _(oh God oh God oh God oh God)_ Language failed. _(please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop)_ Mind failed. _(please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

No words. No thoughts. No language. No mind. No God. No world. No Crowley. Nothing but pain and the fear of more pain. Pain obliterated thought, pain obliterated language, pain obliterated mind, pain obliterated world, pain obliterated everything but itself. 

He’d feared. Now, he knew.

His mind cringed away from the knowledge as his body had cringed away from the pain. But there was no escape. His body hadn’t been able to escape the pain and his mind couldn’t escape the knowledge of pain. 

Pain obliterated thought. Pain obliterated language. Pain obliterated mind. Pain obliterated world. Pain obliterated everything but itself.

 _(There was nothing but pain and the fear of more pain. There was nothing but pain and the fear of more pain. There was nothing but pain and the fear of more pain.)_

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

His body had been unable to bear the pain. His mind was unable to bear the knowledge.

Aziraphale did not exist. Aziraphale had never existed. Angels were not bodies in pain. Angels were not bodies at all. An angel put on a body as a human put on clothing. But Aziraphale had never been a good angel. Never an angel at all, really. Aziraphale was soft and weak and a coward. Aziraphale loved bodies. Aziraphale cared for bodies. Aziraphale loved the world. Aziraphale cared for the world. Aziraphale was soft and weak and a coward. Aziraphale had never been an angel. 

Aziraphale had witnessed suffering bodies. Aziraphale had cared for suffering bodies. Aziraphale had seen human beings reduced to suffering bodies. Aziraphale had eased the pain, when he could. Aziraphale had comforted, when he could. Aziraphale had grieved, always. But humans were made of dust. Dust was soft. Humans were meant to be soft. Angels were not made of dust. Angels were not meant to be soft. Aziraphale was not an angel. Aziraphale was a pathetic excuse for an angel, a coward, shaking in terror and begging for the pain to stop. Aziraphale was not an angel. Aziraphale was not human. Aziraphale was nothing. 

Very well, then. First things first. Crowley was exhausted. Crowley was suffering. Crowley needed rest. 

From a great distance, Aziraphale watched Aziraphale give the gift of dreamless sleep to Crowley. An angelic thing to do. At least the nothing could still put on a decent show. Jolly good show, old boy, jolly good show. Well done. Not real, of course. Aziraphale was not an angel. Aziraphale was nothing. But the nothing could pretend to be a reasonable facsimile. 

Crowley was exhausted. Crowley was suffering. Three months. Why three months? What had happened? He tried to remember. 

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

Fragments of disconnected memory. Blows. _(Oh God)_ Hands holding him down. _(Oh God)_ A sizzling sound. _(Oh God)_ They’d – they’d – they’d – what had they done? He couldn’t remember. The sound of someone screaming. Had he screamed? He must have done. The sound of someone begging. Had he begged? He must have done. Gabriel said he would beg. Of course Gabriel was correct. He was a coward. He was nothing.

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

They’d – they’d – they’d – they’d – they’d – what had they done? He couldn’t remember. 

He’d seen this in humans. They couldn’t remember, sometimes. But he wasn’t human. Angels had perfect memories. How could he not remember? 

Fragments. Shards. 

They’d – they’d – they’d – they’d – they’d – _no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God_

He wasn’t an angel. Angels had perfect memories. Angels were not afraid to remember. He couldn’t remember. He was afraid. He wasn’t an angel. He was nothing. 

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

What had Crowley had to do? Three months. It must have been bad, if he couldn’t even sit up on his own after three months. A block. Crowley said Gabriel _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God)_ – Gabriel had blocked – must have blocked his injuries, no miracle healing. Crowley hadn’t been able to heal him. Crowley must have – oh, Crowley. _Oh, Crowley. Oh, Crowley. Oh, Crowley._ Crowley was exhausted. Crowley was suffering. He had to take care of Crowley. That was all that mattered.

He’d failed Crowley, of course. He was a coward. Crowley knew that, now. Crowley knew, now, that Aziraphale was a coward. Crowley knew, now, that Aziraphale was nothing.

And yet despite that knowledge, Crowley had cared for him.

Crowley had sung to him _(Crowley’s voice, Crowley’s love, pulling him out of the abyss, pulling him back to the world, surrounding him, enfolding him, cradling him, Crowley’s voice, Crowley’s love, holding him, anchoring him...)_

Crowley loved him. Why, though? Why hadn’t Crowley killed him? A bit of hellfire, and the problem of the nothing that called itself Aziraphale would be solved. It would be better for Crowley, surely. And better for the nothing, too. _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

Why hadn’t Crowley killed him? Surely Crowley could see it was the most sensible thing to do. 

Though it would be hard for Crowley, of course. It would have been worse for Crowley than it had been for him, of course. _(Oh, Crowley. Oh, Crowley. Oh, Crowley.)_ He had harmed Crowley. He’d harmed Crowley by suffering. _(Oh, Crowley.)_ He’d harmed Crowley with his cowardice. _(Crowley had seen. Crowley knew.)_ He harmed Crowley by existing. It would be terrible for Crowley to kill him, but surely Crowley could see it would be for the best. He would do his best to explain it to Crowley. Crowley would understand. Crowley always understood. But first he had to help Crowley. Crowley was exhausted. Crowley was suffering. He had to take care of Crowley.

Oh, Crowley. Sleeping peacefully. Beloved Crowley. He took Crowley’s hand in his. His own hands were so weak. So unforgivably weak. “I’m so sorry, Crowley,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be brave for you. I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Oh, Crowley. What had Crowley had to do? What had happened? They’d – they’d – _oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God._ His mind cringed away. Coward. 

He was wearing a nightshirt. Crowley must have put him in that. He had been naked. _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

He pushed up the sleeves. His arms were covered in scars. Horrible scars. Burn scars. When had they burned him? _(The sound of sizzling the smell of his own flesh burning oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

He wanted more water. _(He'd been desperate for water.) (Had he begged for water? He couldn't remember) (Please, water, please, please, water, please, water, please, water, please, water oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

He stared at the glass from which Crowley had helped him sip. He miracled it back into his hands. His hands were too weak to hold the glass. It fell to the floor and shattered. It hadn’t ever really been a glass, had it. Just pretending to be a glass, waiting for the truth to break it. The glass hadn’t ever existed, really. Only the floor was real. 

He wanted more water. But it didn’t matter. He was nothing. What he wanted didn’t matter. 

He wanted a bath. Why did he want a bath? He liked baths. He liked food. He liked sensual pleasures. (He was soft and weak and a coward.) But he didn’t need baths any more than he needed food. Why this clawing desperate need for a bath? _They’d – they’d – they’d – they’d – they’d – no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God_

There was something there he was too afraid to look at. He was always afraid. He was a coward. 

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. He was only waiting to cease to exist, as the glass had been only waiting to shatter. There was no glass. Only the floor was real.

He was nothing. But he would be good. He would help Crowley recover. He would help Crowley heal. And then he would help Crowley understand that the nothing that called itself Aziraphale should never have existed at all. He would help Crowley understand that hellfire would really be for the best. And in the meantime he would be no trouble. 

Be sensible, old boy. Be sensible. 

He would be no trouble at all. He wasn’t an angel, he had never been an angel, but he would be good. He would be obedient. He would be quiet. 

_(There was nothing but pain and the fear of more pain. There was nothing but pain and the fear of more pain. There was nothing but pain and the fear of more pain.)_

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

He was a coward. He was nothing. He was broken. But he would be obedient. He would be quiet. He would be no trouble at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you experience thoughts such as Aziraphale experiences in this chapter: there is a list of crisis hotline numbers around the world [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines). Please ask for help if you need it. None of us can cope alone; we need each other. 
> 
> Whatever your experience: please know that you are not alone. 
> 
> And please, please, please: be as kind to yourself as you would be to Aziraphale.


	8. Epistemology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Similar content warnings to the previous chapter, but this one ends on a much more hopeful note. They have a very long way to go, but they are on the road to recovery now.

Crowley ripped up the ivy with his bare hands. Then he started on the rhododendrons. Fuck the ivy. Fuck the rhododendrons. Fuck the garden. Fuck everything. His hands were bleeding and he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. He didn’t care about anything at all. He especially didn’t care about Aziraphale. He especially didn’t care about the fact that Aziraphale thought that it would be a perfectly sensible idea for Crowley to kill him. Aziraphale, who flinched at movement, flinched at sound, flinched at touch. Aziraphale, who avoided eye contact. Aziraphale, who was stiff and formal and polite and thanked Crowley for his care as though Crowley were a stranger. Aziraphale, who was so concerned for Crowley’s needs but insisted that he himself was just fine. I’m fine, dear. Thank you, dear. Tickety-boo, dear. Tickety-boo.

Tickety-fucking-boo. 

And now Aziraphale wanted Crowley to destroy him with hellfire. This would be the sensible solution, dear. Of course it will be difficult for you, dear, and I am sorry about that, I am so sorry, but it really would be for the best, dear. You can understand that, can’t you, dear? I would appreciate it, though, dear, if you would put me to sleep first, I’d prefer not to feel it, thank you dear. 

Crowley was very much afraid that he would lose control and slap Aziraphale. He slammed the door on his way out to the garden. He didn’t realize he was sobbing until he had torn up half the garden. 

“Crowley.”

“Go away.”

“Crowley. Please.”

Crowley turned around. Aziraphale, who could barely walk on his own, hobbling along with his cane. Aziraphale, who had lost so much weight while unconscious, but refused to eat anything no matter how much Crowley begged. So pitifully thin, so pitifully frail. _(I can’t stand seeing him like this I can’t stand seeing him like this I can’t stand seeing him like this don’t think about the scars don’t think about the scars don’t think about the scars we can fix it soon we can fix it soon we can fix it soon.)_

“Your hands are a mess, dear.” 

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” One motion of Aziraphale's hand, and Crowley's injuries were healed. Just like that. So easy. So fucking easy. 

“Go back inside.”

“Not unless you come with me.”

“I. Said. Go. Back. Inside.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You already have!” 

Aziraphale stared at him, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. Crowley rushed to help him up, but somehow wound up on the ground too. 

Aziraphale reached out a hand and wiped Crowley’s tears away. Crowley hadn’t realized he was still crying. “What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing.”

“Please tell me.”

“I didn’t mean anything.”

“You said I’ve already left you. What did you mean?” 

“I – I – I – Aziraphale. You’re gone. I don’t know where you are, but you’re not here with me. I can’t reach you. I can’t touch you.” _(I'm so scared. I’m so scared. I’m so scared. I’m so scared.)_

“Oh, Crowley.”

“And now you want me to kill you.”

“Crowley. I am sorry. I did not realize – I knew it was difficult for you, but I did not realize – I did not realize just how very difficult it is for you – I should have realized. I am so sorry. We should kill each other.”

“Wh – what?”

“You can make hellfire. I can make holy water. We can kill each other.”

 _Hold it together, Crowley. Don’t scream at him._ “Why?”

“It would be the sensible thing to do.”

“Why would it be sensible?”

“Oh, Crowley. I have harmed you so much.”

“Why have you harmed me?”

“Let’s discuss this inside. We don’t want the neighbors to hear.”

“Fuck the neighbors.”

“Crowley.”

“Fine.” 

“And please fix the garden, dear. We do have standards.”

Crowley groaned, and fixed the garden.

* * * 

They sat on the sofa. He hated this room now. He hated everything. Especially Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale. We should talk. We should talk about – about – about what - about what happened.”

“I do not wish to discuss it.” 

“But you do wish to discuss suicide!” 

“Crowley. There’s no reason for this to continue. We can end it.”

“We’re not bloody ending it!”

Aziraphale flinched. Damn.

He lowered his voice. “What do you mean, exactly, you harmed me?”

“You had – had to – had to – had to see – ”

“See your suffering?”

“And – and – and – my – my weakness.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You should have killed me immediately. I am so sorry, that you cared for me, for so long. I’ve harmed you so much.” 

“You haven’t harmed me at all. They harmed you, and they forced me to watch. They harmed us.” 

“I failed you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I am so sorry, Crowley.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I am so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!”

“It would really be better if you – ”

“I’m not going to kill you!”

“Please.”

 _Oh, God._ “Aziraphale.”

“Please, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale. I would have.”

“Wh – what do you mean?”

“I would have killed you. To stop your suffering. I would have killed you. If I could have killed you, I would have. To stop your suffering. I would have killed you.”

Aziraphale was trembling. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“But, Aziraphale. Aziraphale. It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.” 

“It could happen again.”

“Beelzebub said if we keep our heads down they’ll leave us alone.”

“And you believe them?”

“I – I – what else can we do?”

“We can prevent it.” 

“No, we can’t!”

“You can’t be certain it won't happen again.” 

“We’re not killing ourselves!” 

“Crowley. I – I cannot – I cannot – I cannot continue. Knowing. Knowing – knowing that – knowing that it could happen again. I cannot continue, knowing. Knowing – knowing – knowing that they could – they could – they could do it to you. I could not bear – I could not bear it.”

“Aziraphale. I couldn’t bear it happening to you. It did happen. But it’s over now. You’re getting better. And soon the block will wear off and we’ll be able to heal you completely. It’s going to be all right.”

“Crowley. You don’t know. You don’t know. You don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“You don’t know.”

“Angel. What are you talking about?” 

“And you know, now.”

“I don’t know and I do know? You’re not making any sense.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Crowley.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I failed you.”

“How did you fail me?”

“I’m a coward.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m soft and weak and a coward. You should kill me.” 

“You believe the fucking Archangel who tortured and raped you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Gabriel.”

“No. What do you mean, raped?”

Crowley stared at him. “Gabriel and Sandalphon raped you.”

“You must be mistaken. They wouldn’t do that.”

 _Twitching crumpled body. Fluttering broken wings. That weak, animal cry._ “Oh, Aziraphale.”

“They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that.”

“Aziraphale. Angel.” 

“Don’t touch me!”

“Okay. Okay. I'm sorry. I’m sorry. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No. No. No. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. They wouldn’t do that. No. Please, no. Please, no. Please, no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.” Aziraphale was shaking violently, and Crowley miracled a bucket just in time before the angel started vomiting. He’d got quite adept at that during his own months of vomiting. He hadn’t vomited himself since his sleep after Aziraphale woke up. He might have vomited now. But he needed to hold the bucket for Aziraphale. 

When Aziraphale stopped vomiting Crowley miracled the bucket away, then miracled a glass of water and offered it to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale stared at it. “I’m nothing,” he whispered.

Crowley swallowed, hard. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m not an angel. I’m just a broken body.” 

“That’s how it feels. It doesn’t make it true.”

“I – I couldn’t – I couldn’t – I couldn’t bear – couldn’t bear – couldn’t bear the – the – the – ”

“The pain. No one could bear pain like that, Angel. No one.”

“Was – was that what Falling was like?”

“May I take your hand, Sweetheart?”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley took his hand and squeezed it, very gently. “Falling was bad. Falling was very bad. But what they did to you was worse.”

“Wh – what did they do to me, exactly?”

 _Oh, God._ “What do you remember?”

“I remember – I remember the – the – the – pain. I remember the pain. I seem to – seem to – seem to be having some – some – some – some difficulty, concerning – concerning what caused it.”

“Oh, Angel.”

“Could you – could you – tell me?”

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God._

“Do you – do you remember now, about the – the – the – ?”

“Yes. I do remember now. I would like a bath.”

“Do you – do you want help?”

“I can take a bath by myself. Thank you.”

“Okay. Do you want me to carry you to the bathroom?”

“I can get there myself. Thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll make some tea.”

Aziraphale took the water glass, sipped some water, put the glass down on the coffee table, and got up. Slowly and with so much effort. 

Aziraphale made it to the door, then turned back, and looked at him. “Crowley. I – I still think – I still think we should – should prevent – prevent it from - prevent it from happening again. I cannot – cannot bear – cannot bear the thought – cannot bear the thought that they could – they could do it to you. I cannot bear the thought that they could do it to you. I think we should prevent it. But I – I’m not leaving you.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. I love you, Crowley.” 

“I love you, Aziraphale.”


	9. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a flashback to the 1970s and 80s with two original characters. In Soho in 1975, Aziraphale adopted a brilliant young violinist who had been rejected by his family.
> 
> (This chapter may seem like a digression, but it will be important for the plot in the future.)
> 
> (I’m so sorry for the delay in updating!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for this chapter: the AIDS epidemic and the deaths of two original characters. 
> 
> (This chapter does not have a happy ending, but let me reassure you: the story does have a happy ending.)

**Soho, 1975**

“Mr. Fell. Mr. Fell. They said I can’t ever come back. Ever.”

“Oh, Matthew.”

The young man burst into fresh sobs. “They hate me. They said I should never have been born.”

“Oh, my dear.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I don’t have any money.”

“You could stay here, for a bit. If you like.”

“Could I?”

It certainly wasn’t what Aziraphale would have chosen, but the young man needed a place to stay. “Of course.”

“Could I – could I practice my violin?”

Oh, dear. Few sounds were more unpleasant than that of a badly-played violin. But the young man looked so hopeful. The young man, only nineteen years old, just rejected by his family. Aziraphale could miracle earplugs, discreetly. “Of course, dear. That would be lovely.” 

When Matthew picked up his violin and began playing Vivaldi’s Concerto in A Minor, it was as though Antonio himself were playing in Aziraphale's bookshop. 

*** * ***

**Soho, 1981**

“I was really nervous to meet you,” said Robert. “I know you’re like – like his Dad.”

“Well, yes. Indeed” _And if you ever hurt him, I will smite you._ He gave Robert a pleasant smile. 

“Matthew says you love music.”

“Yes, I do. I am very much looking forward to your concert.”

“I still can’t believe I’m in the London Symphony Orchestra. Matthew says it took him a year to get used to it.”

“You’re the two youngest violinists, I understand.”

“Yeah. I keep worrying I’m going to mess up.”

“I would imagine everyone worries about that.”

“Yeah. Probably. Do you like the Bach Concerto in D Minor for two violins?”

“Oh, yes. Very, very much.”

“Oh, good! Matthew and I play it together. It’s our favorite thing. We’ll play it for you!”

“I would like that very much, Robert.”

*** * ***

**Soho, 1983**

“You’re an angel. Why can’t you heal him?” 

_I could. But I can’t. It’s forbidden._ “I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand, either.” _I should understand. But I don’t._

“He’s dying and you won’t help!”

“It’s not possible. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re useless!”

_Yes. Yes, I am._ “He dislikes the hospital. If you – if you want to bring him home, I could – I could help you take care of him.”

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

*** * ***

**Soho, 1984**

“What are you reading, Matthew?”

“ _Cymbeline_.”

“‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun.’”

“Yeah. Robert – Robert told me that he read those words when he was eight years old. He opened his parents’ copy of _Cymbeline_ to that page, and he didn’t understand the words, but – he said the words ‘ravished’ him – that was the word he used, ‘ravished’ – and he memorized them, the first Shakespeare he ever memorized. And he said every time he recited them to himself, they ‘ravished’ him all over again.” 

“Those words have a similar effect upon me.”

“Yeah. Me too. ‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun / Nor the furious winter’s rages; / Thou thy worldly task hast done, / Home art gone and ta’en thy wages. / Golden lads and girls all must, / As chimney sweepers, come to dust.’ He asked me – he asked me – he asked me to have that at his funeral. Oh, Aziraphale – I – I – ”

Aziraphale took Matthew into his arms and held him as he cried. 

*** * ***

**Soho, 1985**

“You’re the only one who will touch me without gloves. And even with gloves, they wash their hands afterwards. I’m contaminated. I’m disgusting.”

“Matthew. You are not disgusting.”

“You only say that because you’re an angel.”

“No. I say that because it’s true.”

“You shouldn’t have to spend all your time caring for me.”

“You cared for Robert.”

“And you helped. More than helped. You did most of the work. It’s not right.”

“I am an angel. I do not tire as humans do.” 

“But you can’t heal me. You couldn’t heal Robert. You can’t heal me.” 

“I wish I could.” 

“But you can’t.” 

_Could. Can’t. Forbidden._

God’s will, Heaven said. Aziraphale did not understand how the disease ravaging his community could be God’s will. But then there was so much of God’s will that Aziraphale had never, ever understood. _The children screaming in terror as the flood waters rose. The young girl screaming in agony as she died in childbirth. The old slave dying in despair._

Aziraphale had never understood. Aziraphale knew that it was not his place to understand. Aziraphale knew that it was not his place to question. Aziraphale knew that it was not his place to doubt. 

He’d prayed for Robert. 

He prayed for them all. 

But Matthew – Matthew – 

_“Please God. Please. Spare him. Please, God. Please.”_

He shouldn’t love one more than any other. He shouldn’t. He knew that. He knew that. He knew that.

But he did.

****

*** * ***

“I hate that you’re seeing me like this.”

“Didn’t Robert say the same thing, to you?”

“Yeah. But – I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t have wanted – ”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. As I would not want to be anywhere else. Would you like me to wash your hair?”

“Yes, please. Thanks. Aziraphale – ”

“What is it?”

“I – I called my parents.”

_Oh, God._ “When?”

“A while back. When I – when I – when I knew.”

“Did you – did you – did you tell them?”

“Yeah.”

“What – what did they say?”

“They said they’ve never had a son.”

“Oh, my darling. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!”

“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter because...because you do have a son.”

Oh. “Oh, Matthew. Yes. Yes, I do have a son. I do.”

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

“I love you, Matthew.” 

****

*** * ***

“Would you like some music, Matthew?” 

“No...hurts...too...much. No...no...music.” 

It would not take music from him. It would not. 

_Forbidden. Forbidden. Forbidden._

Aziraphale decided that, for this one moment, Heaven could go to Hell. He miracled the pain away. “Better?”

Matthew managed four more words. “Yes...Music...Bach...Double.” 

Matthew died in Aziraphale’s arms, listening to the recording of Matthew and Robert playing Bach’s Double Concerto in D Minor for two violins. 

Aziraphale continued to hold his child’s ravaged body, listening to every piece of music Matthew had ever played for him, ending with the Vivaldi violin Concerto in A Minor.


	10. The Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: similar to chapter 7 and chapter 8.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the comments; they mean the world to me. Thank you.

_The moonlight danced in the surf, the wind flinging foam upon the beach. “Let’s fly!” called Aziraphale and they were in the air, soaring above the silver sea, chasing each other through wisps of cloud, then diving into the waves. They floated, caressed by the water, caressed by the air, caressed by the light. They swam to shore, and then they were kissing, and then making love, the salt of their bodies at one with the salt of the sea._

_Deep inside Aziraphale, filling Aziraphale, Crowley whispered, “With my body, I thee worship.”_

_“With these bodies, in this world,” Aziraphale whispered back. They came together, by the ocean in the moonlight, and then fell asleep in each other’s arms._

****

* * *

****

****

Aziraphale stared at his body under the water. Frail, scarred, weak. Broken. Violated. _(How could they could they how could they how could they how could they how could they how could they please no please no please no please no please no please no please no)_

He’d always enjoyed baths for the sensual pleasure. He’d never been desperate to scrub before. Now he was too weak to do much _(too weak too weak too weak too weak too weak too weak too weak)_. He should have accepted Crowley’s offer of help. _(Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew)_

No. No. No. What must Crowley think of him now? Weak. Cowardly. Defiled. 

_(How could they could they how could they how could they how could they how could they how could they please no please no please no please no please no please no please no)_

So scarred. He must have needed stitches. Crowley must have had to sew his flesh. _(Oh, Crowley. Oh, Crowley.)_

Not an angel. Just a broken body. 

What else had they done to him, that he couldn’t remember? _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

They’d beaten him. _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

They’d burned him. _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

Gabriel’s voice, “Spread your legs.” _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God)_

Not when they’d – not when they’d – not when they’d – _No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Please, no. Please, no. Please, no. Please, no. Please, no. Please, no. Please, no._

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

Before. Before. They’d – they’d – 

They’d castrated him. 

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

Clever of Gabriel, really. Aziraphale was soft and weak and coward. Aziraphale loved bodies. Aziraphale loved the world. Aziraphale had embraced human sex as he’d embraced human food. Aziraphale had embraced gross matter. Aziraphale was disgusting. Very sensible, to punish him that way. Gabriel was clever, indeed. 

_(Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew)_

Crowley was angry. Of course Crowley was angry. Aziraphale had betrayed him. Aziraphale was weak. Aziraphale was a coward. Aziraphale was defiled. Aziraphale was disgusting. 

_He doesn’t want me to leave him but he’ll never see me the same way again. I’m disgusting. He sees that now. He knows that now._

_He’ll never want to make love to me again._

Not an angel. Just a broken body. Just a broken, defiled, disgusting body. 

_(Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew Crowley saw Crowley knew)_

_(How could they could they how could they how could they how could they how could they how could they please no please no please no please no please no please no please no)_

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

Silly to take a bath, really. No amount of soap and water would alter the facts.

Getting out of the tub was exhausting. Every movement was exhausting. Miracles were exhausting. He miracled himself dry and dressed, then slowly made his way into the bedroom and lay down. Months he’d spent here. Months Crowley had spent there, caring for the gross matter of his body.

Not an angel. Just a broken body. Just a broken, defiled, disgusting body. 

How did Crowley not hate him? 

_“I’m disgusting.”  
“Matthew. You are not disgusting.”  
“You only say that because you’re an angel.”  
“No. I say that because it’s true.”_

Oh, Matthew. Oh, Matthew. Oh, Matthew. 

Crowley had done all of Aziraphale's Heaven-assigned work, for years, so that Aziraphale could care for Robert, for Matthew, for others in the community. 

So many. So many. So many. 

_“I hate that you’re seeing me like this.”  
“Didn’t Robert say the same thing, to you?”  
“Yeah. But – I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t have wanted – ”  
“You wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. As I would not want to be anywhere else.”_

Humans were made of dust. Dust was soft. Humans were meant to be soft. Angels were not made of dust. Angels were not meant to be soft. Aziraphale was not an angel. Aziraphale was a pathetic excuse for an angel, a coward, shaking in terror and begging for the pain to stop. Aziraphale was not an angel. Aziraphale was not human. Aziraphale was nothing. 

But Crowley loved him. Crowley needed him. Crowley cared for him. Crowley wanted to care for him. _(“I would not want to be anywhere else”)_

Crowley would never want to make love to Aziraphale, ever again. But Crowley wanted to care for Aziraphale. And Crowley was afraid of losing Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was not an angel. Aziraphale was not human. Aziraphale was nothing.

But Aziraphale had cared for ravaged human bodies. Crowley wanted to care for the broken body that was Aziraphale. Crowley cared. 

Aziraphale was just a broken body. 

He got up, slowly, and made his way over to the bookcase. View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems by Wisława Szymborska, translated by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh. He opened to the poem “Tortures” and read. 

_**Tortures** _

_Nothing has changed.  
The body is susceptible to pain;  
it has to eat and breathe the air, and sleep;  
it has thin skin, and the blood is just beneath it;  
an adequate supply of teeth and fingernails;  
its bones can be broken; its joints can be stretched.  
In tortures, all this is taken into account._

_Nothing has changed.  
The body shudders as it shuddered  
before the founding of Rome and after,  
in the twentieth century before and after Christ.  
Tortures are just as they were, only the earth has grown smaller,  
and what happens sounds as if it's happening in the next room._

_Nothing has changed.  
It’s just that there are more people,  
and beside the old offences new ones have sprung -  
real, make-believe, short-lived, and non-existent.  
But the howl with which the body answers to them,  
was, is and ever will be a cry of innocence  
according to the age-old scale and pitch._

_Nothing has changed.  
Except perhaps the manners, ceremonies, dances.  
Yet the movement of hands to shield the head remains the same.  
The body writhes, jerks and tries to pull away,  
its legs fail, it falls, its knees jack-knife,  
it bruises, swells, dribbles and bleeds._

_Nothing has changed.  
Except for the course of rivers,  
the lines of forests, coasts, deserts and glaciers.  
Amid those landscapes roams the soul,  
disappears, returns, draws nearer, moves away,  
a stranger to itself, elusive,  
now sure, now uncertain of its own existence,  
while the body is and is and is  
and has nowhere to go._

Aziraphale was a body.

Aziraphale was a body, and he had nowhere to go. 

But Crowley cared.

Crowley cared. 

Crowley cared. 

Aziraphale made his way, slowly, back downstairs, to where Crowley was waiting with tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are all bodies, we are all vulnerable, and we need to take care of each other, always.


	11. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the delayed update!
> 
> Take care, everyone. 
> 
> *Virtual hugs to all of you*

_I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t._

_He doesn’t remember everything and he wants me to tell him._

_They held him down and they – they – they – they – they –_

_The smell of flesh burning. The screams. The gurgling sound. And then they – they – they –_

Crowley was vomiting, again. So much for having got over that. Good thing Aziraphale was upstairs. Aziraphale had never seen Crowley vomit. Crowley thought it best he didn’t. He miracled the mess away.

He made tea. He sat and waited. He hoped Aziraphale was okay, taking a bath by himself. Aziraphale was so frail. So fragile. Crowley wondered if he should check on him. Better not. He waited. He realized he was trembling. He wanted to go outside and rip up the garden again. He waited.

Aziraphale came back downstairs. So slowly and unsteadily. Crowley suppressed the urge to get up and help him. Aziraphale had made it clear he didn’t want Crowley’s help. Aziraphale, so skillful at manipulating Crowley into doing what he wished. Aziraphale, for whom Crowley would do anything, anything at all. Aziraphale, for the second time in six thousand years, did not want Crowley’s help. 

_“Even if I knew where the Antichrist is, I wouldn’t tell you. We’re on opposite sides.”_

Aziraphale did not want Crowley’s help. 

Aziraphale made his solitary way to the sofa and sat down next to Crowley. He took some tea. He took a sip and put the cup down. “Crowley,” he said quietly. “I believe I have been...unkind to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know that you see, now. You know. But I do recognize that – that in spite of – in spite of that – in spite of that, you do care, and you wish to help me. I do recognize that.”

“What do you mean, that I see now?”

“You know. Crowley, you’re trembling.”

“So are you. Tell me. What do you mean, I see? What do you mean, I know? What do I see? What do I know?”

“The truth.”

“What truth?”

“The truth.”

“The only truth I see is that you’re not making any sense.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale. Please. Tell me what you mean.”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You keep saying I see, you keep saying I know, but I have no idea what you think I see. I have no idea what you think I know. Please. Tell me.”

“You – you – you see – you see – me.”

“Well, I should hope so, since you’re my husband.”

“But you must regret it, now.”

“What?”

“You must regret our marriage.”

 _Oh, God._ “Why would you think that?”

“You see, now.”

Crowley wanted to shake Aziraphale. “What do I see?”

“I should have been truthful with you. I didn’t want you to know.”

“To know what?”

“I failed you. I’m sorry, Crowley. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley pressed his hands to his eyes to stop the threatening tears. “Aziraphale. I don’t understand. What are you sorry for?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. He’d closed his eyes. When had he closed his eyes? Aziraphale was trembling. Crowley was trembling.

“Aziraphale. Please look at me.”

Aziraphale shook his head. His eyes were squeezed shut. He was struggling not to cry.

Crowley reached out and touched Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale flinched. _Oh God._ “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you without asking first.” 

Aziraphale shook his head again. He was shaking. “You mustn’t feel that you have to touch me,” he whispered. 

“Wh – wh – what?”

“You mustn’t feel that you have to touch me.”

“I – I – I don’t understand. Please, please, please, Angel. Please. Tell me what you mean.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes were still squeezed shut. “I’m defiled. You must be disgusted by me. I know you love me, but you mustn’t feel you have to touch me.”

Crowley wondered if the earth’s gravity had shifted, for how else was everything tilted? Was he falling? 

No, he wasn’t falling. He was sitting on the sofa. Why was the room spinning? He clutched a cushion. He closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them. 

He looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale was curled in on himself, his eyes still closed, still shaking. 

“Aziraphale. Angel. Would you – would you open your eyes? Please?”

Aziraphale cringed and curled deeper in on himself. 

_Aziraphale, cringing in terror. Aziraphale, writhing in agony._

“Aziraphale. Angel. I love you. I don’t – I don’t understand – I don’t understand why you would think I am disgusted by you. I love you. I love you. I don’t understand.”

“I am.”

“You are what?”

“I am soft and weak and a coward. I’m defiled. I’m disgusting.”

The room was spinning again. 

_The smell of flesh burning. The screams. The screams. The screams._

He wondered if he had ever stopped Falling. 

“You – you – you actually believe that?”

“It’s true.”

_He actually believes that. He actually believes that. He actually believes that._

A fresh wave of nausea washed over him. _Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit._ He took a deep breath. 

“Aziraphale. Please, please, please. Listen to me. Please, listen. It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You – you really – you really think I am disgusted by you?”

“You must be.”

 _Oh, God._ “Oh, Angel. No. No. No. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“I know you love me. But you must be disgusted by me.”

“I’m not. Aziraphale – I don’t even – I don’t understand how you could even – how you could even think that.”

“I’m nothing but a broken body.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is true. I’ve always been soft and weak and a coward and now – now – now I’m nothing but a broken body.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. “How long have you believed that?”

“Believed what?”

“Believed that bollocks about being soft and a weak and a coward?”

“It’s true.”

“Bullshit. How long have you believed that?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s bloody relevant. How long have you believed that?”

“I said it is irrelevant.”

“How long have you believed that?”

“Stop asking me that!”

“Tell me!” 

“I said stop!”

“Tell me!”

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale was still shaking. _Oh, God._

“Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. I – I just – I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand how – how you don’t – how you don’t – see – ”

“You keep saying I see but now you say I don’t see?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.” 

“Oh, Sweetheart. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“You saw – you saw – you saw my – you saw my – my – my weakness – you see it now – I’m – ”

“Aziraphale. What they – what they – what they did – what they did to you – what they did to you – they tortured and raped you – it doesn’t make you – it doesn’t make you – it doesn’t make you weak.”

“I’ve always been weak.”

“Did Gabriel put that into your head?”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together and said nothing. 

Crowley wanted to scream. _Keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together._ He struggled for words. “Aziraphale. Whatever – whatever they – you know – you know that Heaven is wrong – you know it – ” _Only took you six thousand years to figure it out. But you did. You figured it out._ “You know they’re wrong. Why would you believe them, still?”

“It’s true.”

“If you believe the bullshit from Heaven, why did you marry me?” _Oh, God._ He hadn’t meant to say that aloud. _Stupid, stupid, stupid Crowley._

Aziraphale opened his eyes and looked at him. “Wh – what you do mean?” 

“You think I regret marrying you. Do you regret marrying me?” 

“Of course not. How could you think that?”

“How could you think I could? How could you? And – if you – if you still believe – if you still believe Heaven – I don’t understand. I don’t understand.” 

“I don’t believe Heaven. You know that. This has nothing to do with that.”

“It has everything to do with Heaven. Why do you believe this bollocks about being weak?”

“Because I am! I’m soft. I’ve always been soft. I – I – love – I love – I love matter. I’ve always loved matter. Soft matter. Gross matter. And – I – I care – I care too much – for bodies. I care too much for bodies.”

“How can you not see that it’s Heaven that brainwashed you into thinking that caring is a bad thing?” 

“Crowley. You must have – you must have had to sew – sew – my – ” 

_Oh, God._ “Yeah. I did.” 

“Oh, Crowley, don’t you see? I – I – I always loved – loved matter too much – loved bodies too much – loved – loved too much – and – you – you – you saw – you saw – you saw – my weakness – I’m nothing – I’m nothing but a broken body – you had to sew my flesh – you must be disgusted by me – you must – you must – you must – ”

“I love your body, Aziraphale.”

“You cannot possibly mean that. Not now.”

“I love you, Aziraphale. I love that you love matter. I love that you love bodies. I love that you love so much. I love you. I love your body. I love your soft body. Doing – doing everything – everything – everything I had to do – was the hardest – hardest thing I’ve ever had to do – ever – but – but it was hard because I can’t bear what they did to you. I love you. I – I – I – ” 

Crowley paused. 

Then he got up, and knelt at Aziraphale’s feet. “May I take your hand, Sweetheart?” 

Aziraphale nodded. 

Crowley took his hand. “Aziraphale, you needed blood and I gave you mine.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

“Aziraphale, our blood is the same. Our corporations are the same. Heaven won’t admit it, Hell won’t admit it, but it’s true, and you know it. You know it. Our blood is the same. Our bodies are the same. We’re the same. If you’re soft and weak and a coward, then I am, too. If you’re defiled and disgusting, then I am, too. We’re the same. We’re on our own side, remember?”

Aziraphale gazed at Crowley with awe.

“We’re going to get through this, Angel. Together. We’re going to get through this. In these soft, fragile bodies. We’re going to get through this, together.”

“With these bodies, in this world,” whispered Aziraphale. 

They manifested their wings, enfolded each other, held each other, and cried.


	12. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale falls into the underworld of his own unconscious mind and remembers that which he could not allow himself to know. (Aziraphale spent six thousand years denying what he knows and unable to recognize his own knowledge.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: flashbacks to chapter 2. (Also, an extended dream sequence with intense imagery.) 
> 
> *
> 
> I am so sorry for the extremely delayed update. I am hoping to update once a week again from now on. 
> 
> Also, what with the world falling apart and all, anonymity seems less important, somehow. I'm  
> [everything_rhymes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everything_rhymes) on AO3 and [everything-rhymes](https://everything-rhymes.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. 
> 
> *
> 
> Thank you all for the comments. They mean the world to me. Thank you so much.
> 
> **

The snow blanketed the cottage. Aziraphale gazed out the window. Six thousand years on earth, and snow still filled him with wonder.

Crowley came over and stood beside him. “Like it?”

Aziraphale nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

“You want to go out in it, don’t you?”

“Well, yes.” But walking was so difficult, and he didn’t think he could manage walking in snow.

“Okay. I’ll carry you.”

“Crowley, you really don’t need to – ”

“I want to. Come on, let’s go!” Crowley looked eager, excited even. Very well, then.

Crowley carried him across the garden and stood, holding him, as the snow fell around them. 

“Let’s make angels,” said Crowley.

“Wh – what?”

“You know. That thing human kids do in the snow.”

“Dear, that’s – ”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s do it!” There was that eagerness, again. 

“All right.” 

Crowley put him down and lay down next to him. It felt wonderful, lying in the snow next to Crowley, their outstretched wings just touching. When Crowley picked him up again, he looked down and saw that there was indeed something resembling an angel shape in the snow. No, not one, but two – two angel shapes, together in the snow. 

Crowley carried him to the hawthorn tree, blew the snow off the bench they had built beneath it, put Aziraphale down on the bench, then sat down beside him. They wrapped their wings around each other, sheltering each other. The snow blurred all edges, muffled the sound of children playing in the distance, softened everything.

The quiet deepened. The children must have gone in to tea. They sat, watching the snow falling in the dusk, listening to the silence. 

The snow tapered, then stopped. All was still.

Wind stirred the branches of the hawthorn tree. The sky cleared. The snow glittered in the moonlight. 

The moon set and the stars grew brighter and more numerous.

“Let’s fly,” whispered Crowley. 

“I can’t.” Crowley knew that. Aziraphale would be able to fly again, once he was fully healed. But not yet. 

“I can.” 

“Really, Crowley, you mustn’t feel that you have to – ” But Crowley was already picking him up once more, carrying him upwards through the icy air. 

The Milky Way was clear. They floated in the starlight. 

When they returned to earth the stars were beginning to fade. They sat on the bench under the hawthorn tree again. Venus was brilliant in the east. The snow glowed in the silver-blue twilight. 

There was no sound. They huddled together, shivering. The sky lightened. Then a bird chirped, and then another, and then another, and then the dawn chorus began. The sky turned rose-gold. The snow was luminous. At sunrise, the world was a glory of sparkling snow. Aziraphale turned and kissed Crowley. They sat together, joy flowing between them. 

The sun climbed higher. The temperature rose above freezing. The snow started to melt. 

A blue tit landed on the branch next to them and gave them an inquiring look. Crowley laughed. “Wants breakfast.”

“We should re-fill the feeder, dear. They’ll have trouble finding food in the snow.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Also, I’m freezing. Want to go inside?”

Aziraphale looked around regretfully. But it was starting to cloud over again, and it really was more than a bit chilly. “All right.” 

Crowley picked him up and carried him back across the garden. Their snow angels had been covered over in the night, the shapes just barely visible now. 

Crowley filled the bird feeder with seeds, and they watched the birds from the window for a while. 

“I wish you would eat,” said Crowley softly.

“I don’t want to eat.” 

Crowley pressed his lips together and said nothing. 

The sky was completely overcast, now. The slushy snow looked weary. _“So dawn goes down to day / Nothing gold can stay.”_ 1

They were both chilled, still. Even with the central heating on, the cottage did not seem terribly warm. “We could make a fire,” Aziraphale suggested. And then staggered as a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him.

Crowley caught him and helped him to the sofa. “Maybe not such a good idea.” 

Aziraphale stared at the empty fireplace. Nothing but ashes, now. 

Crowley wrapped a blanket around him, and another around himself. “Are you okay?”

Aziraphale nodded. They sat together in silence. 

Crowley was still shivering. Out all night in the cold. Carrying Aziraphale in flight in the freezing air. He must be exhausted. Aziraphale should not have allowed it. “Sweetheart, you should sleep.” 

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, dear. Please carry me upstairs, and I’ll help you sleep.” 

“Okay. Yeah, okay, a nap would be nice.” 

Crowley carried Aziraphale upstairs and into the bedroom. They lay down together. Aziraphale gave Crowley a dreamless sleep. 

Aziraphale would have liked to sleep as well. But neither of them dared to dream. They knew dreams would be nightmares. They could give each other dreamless sleep, but only one of them at a time; one of them had to be awake. 

Aziraphale sat with Crowley for a while, stroking his hair. He wondered if they would ever again be able to fall asleep together, to dream together, to awaken together.

He got up and made his way downstairs, slowly. He sat on the sofa, exhausted. He watched the birds through the window. 

The birds had emptied the feeder. He got up and made his way to door, opened it, stepped out onto the porch, and re-filled the feeder.

Crowley wanted so much for Aziraphale to eat. Aziraphale felt nauseated whenever he thought of food. He wondered if they would ever again be able to share a meal. 

He wondered if they would ever again be able to sit in front of the fire together, sharing a bottle of wine, gazing into the flames together – 

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

He couldn’t breathe. He fell into the snow, choking and retching. He lay in the snow, gasping. He crawled back up onto the porch and back into the house. 

He was wet and cold. He miracled himself dry. He was too tired to get up. He crawled to the sofa. 

_“Upon thy belly shalt thou go.”_ 2 _(Oh, Crowley.)_

He managed to pull himself onto the sofa and lay there under the blanket, shivering. 

He tried to read. He couldn’t concentrate.

He closed his eyes, and then opened them in panic. There was something there, still. Something he was too afraid to see. What else had they done to him, that he couldn’t remember? 

They’d burned him. _(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

He was afraid of fire. He was afraid to even think of fire. 

A being of flame, terrified of fire. A being of eyes, terrified to see. 

_“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate...where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale?”_

_I’m not an angel. I’m nothing but a broken body._

_(oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more)_

_Please, God. Please._

The cold fireplace was scrutinizing him. 

_I gave it away. I gave it away. I gave it away._

He couldn’t stand that scrutiny. He pulled himself up and hobbled to the door. The temperature had dropped again. The melted snow was ice now. Everything was frozen. He wanted to run. He couldn’t run. His body was as frozen as the earth, his true form locked away. 

A being of eyes afraid to see, a being of flame afraid of fire. 

Not an angel. Just a broken body. 

What else had they done to him, that he couldn’t remember?

The birdseed that had fallen to the ground was encased in ice. Everything was encased in ice. There would be a flood when the ice melted. There would be a flood. 

He turned away from the door. He wanted to hide. He started towards the stairs, fighting panic.  
The ice was breaking. The fire was coming. The flood was coming. He was drowning. 

_“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate...where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale?”_

Icy white light trapped him, pinned him, pierced him. 

_please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more please no more I gave it away I gave it away I gave it away I gave it away I gave it away I gave it away I gave it away_

He beat his wings frantically. He couldn’t fly. 

He lost his balance and fell, hit his head on the banister, and lost consciousness.

*** * ***

_  
“Creatures of Hell. You have heard the evidence against the demon known as Crowley. What is your verdict?”  
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”  
“Do you have anything to say before we take our vengeance on you?”  
“What’s it to be? An eternity in the deepest pit?”  
“No, we’re going to do something even worse. Letting the punishment fit the crime.”_

_* * *_

_They sat together in the frozen garden._

_“When the ice melts, there will be a flood,” said Aziraphale._

_“That’s what happens in spring,” said Crowley._

_“I’ll drown,” said Aziraphale._

_“You already drowned,” said Crowley._

_“There’s something there, beneath the ice.”_

_“Tell me what you know, Angel.”_

_“I’m not meant to know.”_

_* * *_

_He ran through the hallways of Hell. There had to be a way out._

_Icy white light trapped him, pinned him, pierced him._

_“What happened to your flaming sword?” asked Gabriel._

_“Please, no,” he begged._

_“He lies all the time,” said Gabriel. “He’s afraid of the truth. He’s soft and weak and a coward.”_

_Hastur laughed. “Gave away his flaming sword, did he? Let the punishment fit the crime.”_

_* * *_

_They stood together in front of the Tree. “You never ate of it,” said Crowley._

_“No, I didn’t,” said Aziraphale._

_“But you do know.”_

_“No, I don’t.”_

_“Yes, you do. You just don’t know that you know.”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“How do you know you don’t know?”_

_“Why do you keep asking questions?”_

_“I need to know.”_

_“Well, you’re a demon. I’m an angel. I’m not meant to know.”_

_“How can you tell the truth if you’re not meant to know?”_

_“Stop asking questions!”_

_“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. What happened to your flaming sword, Aziraphale?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“That’s a lie and you know it.”_

_“I said I don’t know!”_

_“Tell me the truth!”_

_“I’m not meant to know the truth!”_

_“Tell me!”_

_“I gave it away!”_

_“Why?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“You know the truth, Angel. You just can’t believe it.”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_Crowley gazed at him. “Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. Why did you give your flaming sword away?”_

_“Because they needed it!”_

_Crowley nodded. “I know,” he said._

_* * *_

_“No,” Aziraphale begged, “No. Please, if you have any decency, any decency at all, please have mercy. Please.”_

_Gabriel laughed. “You know you deserve this. You’re guilty. The punishment fits the crime.”_

_* * *_

_“Tell me the truth,” said Crowley._

_He hid his eyes, cringing. “I can’t,” he said._

_“Why not?” asked Crowley._

_“I’m a coward.”_

_“How long have you believed that?”_

_“I couldn’t bear the pain.”_

_“No one could bear pain like that.”_

_“I can’t bear the knowledge.”_

_“No one can bear it alone.”_

_“I lied.”_

_“You evaded.”_

_“I lied.”_

_“You hid.”_

_“I lied.”_

_“What are you hiding from?”_

_“I don't know.”_

_“What do you know, Angel?”_

_“I don’t know.”_

_“Yes, you do know. You’ve always known. Tell me.”_

_“You didn’t deserve to burn.”_

_Crowley picked an apple and offered it to him. “Neither did you,” he said._

_“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, and turned away._

_* * *_

_The being of eyes and flame was lost in the flood. He struggled frantically to reach the surface but was pulled down, down, down. The water turned to blood. He was drowning._

_* * *_

_Gabriel watched him. “You burned and drowned, as a traitor should.”_

_“I burned and drowned in blood,” said Aziraphale._

_“You deserved it.”_

_“No one deserves pain like that.”_

_“You deserved it,” said Gabriel. “The punishment fit the crime.”_

_* * *_

_“You didn’t deserve it,” said Crowley._

_“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale._

_Crowley held the apple out to him. “Take this,” he said. “You need to eat.”_

_“I can’t. I’m not meant to know.”_

_Crowley’s true form enfolded his. Their flames intertwined. “Open your eyes, Angel,” said Crowley. “All of them.”_

_“I’m afraid.”_

_“It’s all right. I gave you my blood. We’re the same”_

_Aziraphale took the apple. He looked at Gabriel. “No one deserves such suffering,” he said. “That, I know.”_

_“You’re soft and weak and a coward,” said Gabriel. “You’re not meant to know.”_

_“I care.”_

_“You care for gross matter.”_

_“I did what was needed.”_

_“Is that what the demon told you?”_

_“We did what was needed,” said Crowley. “No one can know alone. No one can care alone. We did what was needed.”_

_“He gave me his blood,” said Aziraphale. “We’re the same.”_

_“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate,” said the Serpent. “Open all of your eyes, and see what you are afraid to see. Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. Eat, and recognize your knowledge.”_

_Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, opened all of his eyes, and ate._

_* * *_

_They held him down, and broke his wings. He gibbered, “No, please, no, please, no, please, no, no, no, no, no, no –”_

_There was nothing but blinding agony._

_* * *_

_He was drowning in the flood. He beat his wings frantically. He couldn’t fly._

_From somewhere came Crowley’s voice. Crowley’s voice, Crowley’s love, pulling him out of the abyss, pulling him back to the world..._

_Crowley’s hand, reaching down to him._

_“I can’t bear the knowledge,” he said._

_“No one can bear it alone,” said Crowley. He picked up Aziraphale and carried him upward._

_“Thank you,” said Aziraphale._

_“It wasn’t your fault,” said Crowley._

_“I know,” said Aziraphale. “My eyes are open, now. All of them.”_

_They rose above the water, and once more saw the stars._ 3

*** * ***

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale! Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Crowley was carrying him above the flood. No, they weren’t flying. But Crowley was holding him. Where was the flood? Crowley was holding him. Was there a flood? 

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Aziraphale. I thought you – I thought – I shouldn’t have slept – I’m sorry – I thought – oh, Aziraphale – oh, God – ”

There was no flood. Or maybe there was. The ice was melting. It was nearly spring. He could hear a bird chirping. The birds would need more seeds. They would do what was needed. 

“– oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, Aziraphale – are you – are you – ” Crowley was terrified. 

He reached up and stroked Crowley’s beloved face. “It’s all right, dear heart,” said Aziraphale. “It’s all right. I know, now. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> 1Robert Frost, [Nothing Gold Can Stay](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/148652/nothing-gold-can-stay-5c095cc5ab679)
> 
> 2 King James Bible, Genesis
> 
> 3 Dante, The Inferno
> 
> **Thank you to[Unfeathered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfeathered) for Britpicking this chapter.**


	13. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: graphic discussion of chapter 2

Aziraphale’s concussion was a new injury, unaffected by Gabriel’s block. Crowley healed Aziraphale, and then helped him sleep. Then he went to the bathroom and spent the next several hours crying and vomiting. 

When Aziraphale awakened, they talked. Aziraphale remembered, now, but his memories were still fragmented. Aziraphale needed help piecing his memories together. Aziraphale needed Crowley’s help. Crowley knew that Aziraphale needed his help. Crowley knew that it was very important that he help Aziraphale to piece his memories together. Crowley knew that it was very important that he answer Aziraphale’s questions without crying or screaming or vomiting himself. 

*

(“Did I beg for water?” asked Aziraphale.  
“Uh – no. No, you didn’t. Did – did you – did you want – did you want water?”  
“Yes.”  
_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._ )

*

Crowley knew that Aziraphale needed Crowley’s help. Crowley knew that it was very important to give Aziraphale the help he needed. 

Crowley watched himself from a very great distance as he tried to help. 

*

(“And – then?”  
“He hit your lungs. With the poker. Hastur hit your lungs with the poker.”  
“I drowned.”  
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, you did.”  
_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._ )

*

Crowley knew that it was very important that he answer Aziraphale’s questions without crying or screaming or vomiting himself. The carpet was in good condition now. He’d miracled all the stains away. He kept on seeing them, though. He kept seeing the vomit. He kept seeing the blood. There was so much blood. Aziraphale liked the carpet. 

Aziraphale was asking him something. What was Aziraphale saying? 

“He pulled your guts out,” he heard himself say. _What the fuck are you doing? He doesn’t need to know that._

“Wh – what?”

“He pulled your guts out. When Hastur pulled the poker out, he pulled your guts out with it. He pulled your guts out.” _He doesn’t need to know that. Shut the fuck up._

“I – I see,” said Aziraphale faintly. “Well, I – I suppose I should be grateful that I was unconscious for that bit, then.” 

“Well I wasn’t.” _Shut the fuck up. He doesn’t need to hear this._ “I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I was conscious for all of it. I smelled your flesh burning and I heard you screaming and I heard you drowning in your own blood and I saw him pull your guts out and I couldn’t lose consciousness and I saw everything they did to you – everything they did to you – everything they did to you – I saw everything – I saw it and I couldn’t stop it – I saw it and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it!” _Stop screaming. Shut up. What are you doing? Shut up, he doesn’t need to hear this._ “I saw it! I saw it! I saw it! I saw it! I saw it and I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it!” 

He realized he was sobbing. 

“Oh, my darling. Oh, my darling. Oh, Crowley. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.” Aziraphale was holding him. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right,” Crowley sobbed. “It’s not all right. It’s not all right. It’s not all right. It’s not all right. It’s not all right. It’s not all right. It’s not all right. It’s not all right. 

Aziraphale wrapped his wings around him, rubbed his back, stroked his hair.

“I wanted you to die,” he whispered. _Don’t tell him that. Don’t tell him that. Don’t tell him that._ But he already had. 

There was the tiniest fraction of a pause in the movement of Aziraphale’s hands, and then the gentle, soothing motion resumed. 

“I wanted you to die,” he said again. “I wanted you to die to stop your suffering. But not just – not just – not just to stop your suffering. Not just for you. Not just for you. Not just for you. For me. For me. For me. I wanted you to die because I couldn’t stand it – I couldn’t stand it – I couldn’t stand it – I couldn’t stand it – I wanted to make some hellfire and kill you to make it stop – to make it stop – to make it stop – to make it stop – to make it stop – to make it stop – to make it stop – ” 

Aziraphale continued rubbing his back and stroking his hair. 

“You begged them to stop and they didn’t stop – they didn’t stop – they didn’t stop – they didn’t stop – they didn’t stop – they didn’t stop – they didn’t stop – and the sounds – the sounds – the sounds – the sounds you made – the sounds you made – the sounds you made – I just wanted it to stop – I just wanted it to stop – I just wanted you to die so it would stop – I just wanted you dead so it would stop – I wanted you dead – I wanted you dead – I wanted you dead – I wanted you dead so it would stop – so it would stop – so it would stop – so it would stop – so it would stop – so it would stop – so it would stop – so it would stop – ”

He was vomiting. Aziraphale miracled a bucket and held it for him. He vomited so violently he wondered if his own guts might wind up in the bucket. Aziraphale kept one hand on his back, a steady, gentle pressure. 

When he finally stopped vomiting, Aziraphale miracled the bucket away, then miracled a glass of water and offered it to him. He drank.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve vomited,” said Aziraphale. It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“How often?”

“A lot. When you were asleep.”

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale wrapped his wings around him again, held him again. 

He realized he was sobbing again, his face buried in Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale held him as he cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried. 

When he stopped crying Aziraphale continued to hold him. 

He didn’t know how long it was before Aziraphale spoke.

“Crowley,” he said. “Crowley. When I realized they weren’t going to hurt you, I was so grateful. I was afraid, but I was so grateful they weren’t going to hurt you. I would have done anything to protect you, Crowley. Anything at all. But when – when they – when they – Crowley, I forgot you existed. I wasn’t – I wasn’t aware of anything – anything – anything except – anything except – anything except pain. There was nothing but pain, nothing but pain and the fear of more pain. I forgot – I forgot you existed, Crowley. I forgot.”

“I didn’t forget you, I killed you,” he started crying again.

“I’m still here, Sweetheart. I’m still here.” 

“You wanted me to kill you with hellfire, but I already did. I already did.”

“Oh, Crowley. Oh, my darling. I should not have – I am sorry. I am so sorry.” 

“I wanted you to be dead.”

“I wanted to be dead. I couldn’t bear the pain.”

“No one could bear pain like that. No one. But - but - but I wanted you to die because I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it.”

“Crowley. No one could bear pain like you felt. No one. You suffered as much as I did. Perhaps more.”

“I failed you.”

“Crowley, you put me to sleep and stopped the – stopped the – stopped the pain. You treated – treated – treated my – my – my injuries – and I – I cannot – I cannot imagine how difficult that was for you. You gave me your blood. You took care of me, and – ”

“I failed you.”

“Crowley. They tortured you just as much as they tortured me. Neither of us could bear it. Neither of us could bear what they did to us. We couldn’t bear it. But perhaps – perhaps – perhaps we must recognize, that we couldn’t bear it because it was unbearable. It was unbearable.

“Crowley, it seems – it seems that both of us – both of us – feel that we’ve – feel that we’ve failed each other – because – because – because we could not bear it. But perhaps – perhaps – if we recognize – recognize that – recognize that we could not bear it because it was unbearable – then perhaps – perhaps – perhaps – ”

“Perhaps we can recognize that you were right. We cannot bear it. And they could do it again.”

Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him. “Crowley,” he said. “It is true. We can hope they will leave us alone. But we cannot be certain. But Crowley – even though – even though we know – even though we know – even though we know that we cannot bear it – even though we cannot bear it, and even though we cannot be certain that they won’t do it again – I do not – I do not wish – I do not wish to – to take preemptive action. Crowley, would you look at me?”

Crowley raised his head.

Aziraphale looked into his eyes. “I love you, Crowley. I love this world. And I want to be with you in this world for as long as possible. Even though – even though there is no certainty. I want to be here with you. I am – I am afraid. But I love you. And I want to be here, in this world, with you. Even – even knowing – even knowing that – even knowing that it could happen again. Even - even knowing - even knowing that – even knowing that we cannot bear it – even knowing that it is unbearable - even knowing, I want to be here with you. I want to be here with you, for as long as possible. If you – if you are – if you are willing, to take that chance. With me. ” 

Crowley gazed at his husband with awe. “Aziraphale. That is the most courageous thing I’ve ever heard in my existence.”

Aziraphale’s eyes filled with tears. “You give me courage, Crowley. Oh, Crowley. You didn’t fail me – you picked me up and pulled me out of – out of – you’ve been carrying me – you’ve been carrying me – in every possible way – you’ve been carrying me – but you – you are just as – just as – just as hurt as I am – you need – you need – oh, Crowley, I – I wish – I wish I could – I wish I could – ”

“Oh, Sweetheart.” Crowley wrapped his wings around Aziraphale. “After – after – after – I almost couldn’t – almost couldn’t – but I did. Because I had to. For you. Not the first time I’ve done something I didn’t think I could do, for you. ‘Come up with something or I’ll never talk to you again,’ remember? You give me courage, Aziraphale. You give me courage. And you’re right. There is no certainty. But even – even knowing – even knowing, I don’t want to miss a moment of this life with you. I want to be here with you, for as long as possible.” 

“Crowley, would you – would you like to eat something?”

Crowley’s breath caught. “You – you – you want to eat?”

“Yes. I do. You – you haven’t eaten since – since - since - you haven’t eaten since, either. Neither of us has. Would you – would you like to eat, now, with me?”

Crowley smiled. “Yes. Yes, I would like to eat with you, Angel. Yes, I would.”


	14. Transmutation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Thank you to[Elisi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisi) for beta-reading.**  
> (Also, if you are not reading [Elisi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisi)’s brilliant _Good Omens_ / _Doctor Who_ crossover story, [What If God Was One of Us?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114585/chapters/52781452), then you really ought to do so! I cannot recommend it highly enough.)
> 
> The idea that miracles for angels and demons are analogous to art for humans is from [this Tumblr post](https://theniceandaccurategoodomensblog.tumblr.com/post/611064601548914688).

  


_We only live, only suspire  
Consumed by either fire or fire._  
-T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets, “Little Gidding”

  


The rain melted the last of the ice and snow. Aziraphale sat on the porch and watched the rivulets running through the garden. The air smelled of spring. The earth was stirring. Soon there would be new growth, new leaves, new life.

Aziraphale’s corporation was stirring. The block was wearing off. He could feel it. Soon his body could be healed. 

Should Aziraphale heal himself, or should he ask Crowley to heal him? Crowley was traumatized. Perhaps it would help him, to heal Aziraphale, to undo what he had witnessed, to undo what he had tried to mend in the human way? But Crowley had done so much, given so much, carried so much. Perhaps healing Aziraphale would be one more burden. 

Aziraphale could ask Crowley what he preferred. But he knew what Crowley would say. Crowley would want to know what Aziraphale wanted, and refuse to state his own preference. (Really, his husband could be maddening, sometimes.) 

Crowley was traumatized. Aziraphale needed to help. Aziraphale needed a plan. 

Planning was not Aziraphale’s forte. Aziraphale had not been made to plan. Aziraphale had been made to follow plans, not to make them.

Well, Aziraphale had never been terribly good at doing what he was made for, had he?

He cursed himself for his failure to recognize Crowley’s trauma. How could he not have seen? _“How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”_

Well, yes, indeed. _Open your eyes, Aziraphale. All of them._

His true form flickered. Soon, now.

Healing would not be easy. Miraculous healing was among the more difficult of miracles to perform. Arranging matter for a supernatural being was a bit like arranging words for a human poet; that one could do it did not necessarily mean that one could do it well. That one could compose a brilliant sonnet on one occasion did not necessarily mean that one could do so again on demand. 

And, of course, organic matter was a great deal more complex than inorganic matter. Even for one well-practiced and highly skilled, healing injuries such as Aziraphale’s would take tremendous concentration and effort. Aziraphale and Crowley were both adept enough to do it, in theory…but in practice, when the task was so very – very – well, “fraught” was probably the correct word… 

…it would be difficult. 

Perhaps it would be best to do it himself. If he asked Crowley, then Crowley would do it, because Crowley always did what Aziraphale asked. But it wouldn’t be right, to ask that of him. Crowley was traumatized. Crowley was burdened. Aziraphale needed to help Crowley, not burden him even more.

Best to do it himself.

But if Aziraphale did it himself, then, well…that might hurt Crowley, too. Crowley might feel…excluded. Crowley feared being excluded by Aziraphale. 

And it might help Crowley, to do it. Crowley, who had been forced to witness. Crowley, who had been helpless. Crowley, who had sewn Aziraphale’s flesh and set his bones. Crowley, who had given Aziraphale his blood. Crowley, who had cared for Aziraphale, alone, for three months. Crowley, who had carried Aziraphale in every possible way. Perhaps it would help Crowley to be able to heal Aziraphale at last. 

Or perhaps it would traumatize him further.

Oh, dear. Aziraphale did not know what to do. 

Well, he supposed…they could each do part of it? But that might make things even more…fraught. You do this scar, dear, and I’ll do that one. It would be…difficult. 

Aziraphale’s corporation had been written into a statement of the power of Heaven and Hell. The speech could be re-written, soon. But the  
re-writing would be…frightening.

Aziraphale did not know what to do. 

Well, the block was wearing off, but it was not worn off yet. He had time to think.

Aziraphale was not certain that further thought would help to solve his dilemma.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
The spring came, and the garden bloomed. Crowley worked in the garden. Aziraphale sat in the garden and kept Crowley company. Crowley was polite to the plants. Aziraphale was not sure if that was because Crowley did not want to upset Aziraphale, or because Crowley did not feel the need to yell at the plants. Aziraphale hoped it was the latter. Crowley only felt the need to yell at his plants when he was having a very difficult time himself. Of course, Crowley was having a very difficult time himself. Aziraphale knew that. But neither of them had mentioned it since Crowley had cried in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale was not certain whether he ought to bring it up again or not. 

Aziraphale was not certain of anything. 

In the meantime, Aziraphale worried that Crowley did feel the need to yell at his plants, and was only refraining from doing so for Aziraphale’s sake.

Aziraphale worried.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
It was lovely to be in the garden together, in the springtime.

They ate together, in the garden. It was lovely to eat again. It was lovely to eat together again.

It was lovely. 

Aziraphale worried.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
Crowley was asleep. Aziraphale sat outside. The moon was waxing. The wind stirred the waters of the pond at the end of the garden. The moonlight glimmered. The air was fragrant with the scent of apple blossoms. 

Aziraphale thought of the poem “Blossom” by Mary Oliver1, “In April / the ponds / open / like black blossoms, / the moon / swims in every one; / there’s fire / everywhere” –

He reeled. 

Fire. 

He was still afraid of fire. 

_A being of flame afraid of fire._

But perhaps…

…perhaps…

…perhaps, the fire he feared was not exactly the fire meant by the poet…

There was fire everywhere. 

There was fire in the heart of every cell, burning fuel for energy.

There was fire in the heart of every cell, transforming food into growth, into life…

Fire transformed. 

The end of “Blossom” came into his mind: 

_  
we belong  
to the moon and when the ponds  
open, when the burning  
begins the most  
thoughtful among us dreams  
of hurrying down  
into the black petals,  
into the fire,  
into the night where time lies shattered,  
into the body of another._

  
  
Aziraphale’s true form quickened and flickered and flamed into life.

And there it was. There was the solution.   
  
  
* * *  
  
  
“That’s impossible,” said Crowley.  
  
“That’s what you said last time, dear, and we did it.”  
  
“Okay. It’s true. I said swapping bodies was impossible, but we did it. But this…this…swapping bodies is one thing, but…healing…in the middle of a swap…that’s just…”  
  
“We can rearrange matter. That’s what we do, when we heal.”  
  
“So, we’ll heal. You can heal yourself now. Or I could heal you. Whatever you want, Angel.” 

_Oh, Crowley. Whatever you want, Angel, whatever you need. Maddening, selfless, beloved demon._

“It would be – difficult. There is – too much – too much – ”

“Yeah, I know.” Crowley looked down. “It will be – hard. Really hard. I know. But I can do it. If you – if you want. If you want, I can do it. I can do it, if you want.” Crowley was trembling.

Crowley would do anything for Aziraphale. No matter how much it hurt him. 

Aziraphale could not allow that. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, dear.” 

Crowley looked up, and there it was. That wounded look. Like he’d had at the – at the –  
  
_“We have nothing whatsoever in common.”  
  
You forgave me for that. But you won’t ever forget. _

“Crowley. We’re on our own side. We can do it together.” 

Crowley snorted. “Or we can make a mess of it together.”

“It’s rearranging matter. We can do it.”

“From the outside, yeah. But this would be from the – from the – from the inside. Like a poem trying to write itself.”  
  
“That’s often how human poets describe poetry.”

“We’re not human!”

“Yes, I do know that, dear. But perhaps the metaphor will work.”  
  
“You’re always the one who thinks my ideas won’t work. What’s with you and this – this – this metaphysical optimism?”  
  
“It’s not optimism. It’s – it’s recognition. That we are the same. We can share our bodies and – and – ”

“Co-author a sonnet? That will go well.”

“If any two beings can co-author a sonnet, we can.” 

Crowley softened. “You really mean that, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes. I do. As you said: Our blood is the same. Our bodies are the same. We’re the same. We can do this. Together.”

Crowley’s eyes glistened. “Right then,” he said. “Let’s do it.”  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
They sat together under the hawthorn tree with its new leaves. Soon it would blossom.

Aziraphale reached out for his true form. They needed access to their true forms, to swap bodies. Aziraphale’s true form had been locked away, frozen as the earth in winter…but now it was spring, and his true form flowed, the flame of his form as fluid as the blood in his body, Crowley’s blood, flowing through his body…

…he felt Crowley’s hand, taking his hand…

…and there was Crowley’s true form, first a ripple and then a wave, flowing into him, and he was flowing into Crowley, fluid forms filling each other’s flesh, wave upon wave upon wave of their being, the tide rising…

…and then just as the tide crested, just as they each inhabited both bodies equally…

…they paused.

They held each other.

Slowly, tentatively, Crowley moved. Aziraphale followed. 

The form shifted.

They froze. 

Aziraphale felt Crowley’s fear, mirroring his own.

So scarred, this form. So scarred.

The flesh, scarred. Not the blood. The blood they shared. The blood that carried the breath that lit the fire in the dust. This soft, fragile, precious, living dust.

“Oh, my darling,” breathed Aziraphale. “Be not afraid. We’re the same.” He joined the vessels of their clasped hands, and the blood flowed between them. Flesh and flame and form, flowing, and…

…the dust began to dance…moving forwards, moving backwards, moving upwards, moving downwards, rising and falling and shaping and rhyming and…

…settling. 

The movement stilled. 

They rested.

All was calm. 

And then the tide began to ebb, and they were flowing back into their own bodies, their true forms receding into the depths…

…and they were sitting on the bench under the hawthorn tree, in their own bodies, holding hands.

Crowley was looking at him anxiously. “Are you all right, Angel?”

Aziraphale felt a bit dizzy, actually. “Yes. I – I think so. Are you?”  
  
“Yeah. I am. You’re – you’re healed.”  
  
“I – I – I suppose I am.” He looked down at his body. Plump, once more. “Oh, dear. We got blood on the ground.”  
  
“Good fertilizer. Aziraphale, I think we’ll have – ”

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand and held his own hand up. The burn scars were gone. But there was a new scar, now, on his palm, where their blood vessels had joined. 

Crowley held his own hand up so Aziraphale could see that he, too, had a scar on his palm. “We could – ”

“No!” Aziraphale was startled at his own forcefulness. “No, I would prefer to keep it. If that is all right, with you.”  
  
Crowley smiled. “I would prefer to keep it, too.” He reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand again. Their flames danced when the scars touched.

Above them, in the branches of the hawthorn tree, a nightingale sang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Oliver, Mary. _New and Selected Poems, Volume One_.


	15. Fire and Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Elisi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisi) for beta-reading  
>   
>  ******  
>   
>  Thank you to [mecurtin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mecurtin/profile) for advice and an excellent suggestion.  
>   
>  ******  
>   
>  Thank you all so much for the comments. They mean a lot to me. Thank you.  
>   
>  ******  
>   
>  I am so, so sorry for the several-month delay in posting; I had a bit of a complicated summer. I hope to update regularly again from now on.  
>   
>  ******  
>   
>  Content warning: flashbacks and references to chapter 2; also the first tentative moves towards physical sex.  
>   
>   
>  ******  
>   
>   
> 

They had a celebratory picnic in the woods. They sat on a blanket, surrounded by bluebells, bees visiting each flower, dappled sunlight through the new leaves. 

Crowley wove a wreathe of bluebells and put it on Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale laughed and kissed him. Then he stood, picked Crowley up, and spun him around. “Now I can carry you again,” Aziraphale said. 

Aziraphale manifested his wings and flew upwards, carrying Crowley, over the woods, over the fields, over the downs, to the sea where the sunlight danced upon the waves, then back again. 

When they returned to their picnic, Crowley curled up in Aziraphale’s lap, reveling in the soft, round body of his beloved. 

When they finished eating, they lay on the blanket together, looking up at the sky through the trees. 

The air was warm. The wind whispered in the leaves…

…they awakened to the golden light of late afternoon and the sound of birds singing. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his face and voice full of awe, “Crowley. We fell asleep. We fell asleep together, and we didn’t have nightmares.” 

“We didn’t have nightmares,” Crowley said. “We didn’t have nightmares.” 

They walked together through the woods as the sun set and the twilight deepened over the green earth, holding hands.  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
On a chilly night, Aziraphale suggested, “Let’s make a fire.”

Crowley stared at him. “Are – are you sure?”  
  
“Yes.” Aziraphale looked at the fireplace. “Wh – what – ha – happened – happened to – to the – to the – to the fireplace tools?”

“I, uh, I – I put them away.”  
  
“I see.”

“If you – if you want to – to make a fire – I’ll – ”

Aziraphale nodded. He was trembling.

Crowley went and got the fireplace tools. He put them back in their place. 

They both stood staring at the poker. 

_The smell of Aziraphale’s flesh burning. The sound of his screams._

Crowley was on his knees vomiting. 

Aziraphale was holding a bucket for him, and holding him.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale said. “They tortured you as much as they tortured me.” 

They didn’t have a fire that night.  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
The next time they fell asleep together, they did have nightmares.  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
Aziraphale had given Crowley a dreamless sleep. Crowley awoke to the smell of bread baking. Aziraphale hadn’t baked since – before. 

Crowley went to the kitchen. The oven door was open, and Crowley could feel the heat. 

Aziraphale was standing in front of the oven, standing and not moving. “I’d rather you didn’t come in just now, dear,” he said, without turning around. His voice was shaking. 

“Are you – are you – are you all right?”  
  
“Tickety-boo, dear. I would really prefer it if you wouldn’t come in just now. Thank you, dear.”

Crowley started to say something, thought better of it, went out into the garden, and ripped up a few of the plants.  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
Aziraphale took three baths every day. Crowley wanted to ask him about it, but didn’t.  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
The bread was delicious, of course. Aziraphale baked more, bread and cakes and biscuits of all kinds. But always alone. He’d always enjoyed Crowley’s company in the kitchen, before. Not now.

Crowley knew that Aziraphale was working through his fear. He knew that Aziraphale needed privacy.

Aziraphale had always needed more privacy than Crowley. Crowley knew that. Especially when Aziraphale was afraid. Crowley knew that. Aziraphale needed privacy. Crowley knew that. Crowley knew that. Crowley knew.

He still wanted to rip up the garden.  
  
  
*** * *  
  
  
**Crowley was angry at the rosebushes. He wanted a perfect rose for Aziraphale. Not a miracled rose, a rose he had grown. And the rosebushes were misbehaving. He yelled at them. Not when Aziraphale was around; it upset Aziraphale when he yelled at the plants. It upset Aziraphale even more when Crowley ripped up plants. Even so, one day when Aziraphale was baking alone in the kitchen, Crowley ripped up one of the rosebushes. As a lesson to the others.  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
Aziraphale was taking longer than usual in the bath. 

Crowley heard a cry from the bedroom and rushed in. Aziraphale was naked, and shaking violently, cowering in terror, “No, please, no, please, no, please, no!” he cried.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale! It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were unseeing and terrified. He cringed and shrank away, “No, please, no, please, no!”

“Aziraphale. Angel. Aziraphale. Hear my voice. It’s a memory. It’s over. It’s a memory. You’re safe now. It’s all right. You’re safe now. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Aziraphale shuddered and came back to himself. He stared at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley put his arms around him. 

Aziraphale pulled away. “I’m sorry, dear. I took a bath, and then – and then – ”

“I know. It’s all right. You’re safe.”  
  
“Yes, thank you dear. I shall get dressed now.”

Crowley wanted to hold Aziraphale, but it was clear his husband wanted to be alone, so he got up, and went out to the garden, and ripped up another rosebush.  
  
  
*** * *  
  
  
**“You’re so self-controlled,” Crowley said, over the fourth bottle of wine. He hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation, but it did.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re so guarded all the time.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. You never lose control.” _Except when you have a flashback. And then you won’t let me comfort you._

Aziraphale gazed into his wine glass for a long time. “They took control from me, Crowley,” he said quietly. “They took it.”  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
They drove to London to go to a concert.

“Please don’t drive so fast, dear,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley was about to scoff, but then he saw the look on Aziraphale’s face, and slowed down.  
  
  
*** * *  
  
  
  
**Crowley was working in the garden when he noticed an odd sound from inside – the sound of metal repeatedly striking metal. He hurried indoors. 

Aziraphale was standing in front of the fireplace, holding the poker and smashing it onto the grate, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. The grate broke. Aziraphale kept smashing. The poker broke. Aziraphale picked up the tongs and started smashing the broken poker with them. Sparks flew and landed on the carpet. Crowley put them out before they could start a fire. The tongs broke and Aziraphale started with the shovel. 

The shovel wouldn’t last long. Crowley went outside to the garden and got a hoe and brought it back inside. When the shovel broke, Crowley handed the hoe to Aziraphale. Aziraphale took it and continued smashing the poker, though Crowley wasn’t sure if his husband was aware of his presence. 

The hoe was on fire. Crowley moved the furniture and the carpet and – most importantly – the books out of the way. 

Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, held the flaming hoe and smote the poker into dust.

When there was nothing left but powder, Aziraphale stood there, staring at the fireplace. The flame went out. 

Crowley waited.

Aziraphale turned towards him, “You said I never lose control,” he said.

“I stand corrected,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale looked around. “You rescued the books. Thank you.”

Crowley smiled gently. “It’s what I do, Angel,” he said. “It’s what I do.”

Aziraphale took his hand. “Thank you, Crowley.”  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
They made a fire and sat in front of it, snuggling. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale asked, “Crowley – do you – do you think – do you think we will ever – ever be able to – ever be able to make love in the human way again?”  
  
Crowley’s breath caught. “Would – would you – would you want to?”

“Yes. Would…would you?”

“You’re – you’re the one – ”

“But you – you saw –” Aziraphale bit his lip and closed his eyes. 

_Oh, God. Does he still think he’s defiled or some Heaven-shit like that?_ “Aziraphale. Angel. I want it. I miss it. I think about it. But when I think – I – I remember – I remember what they did to you. It’s not – it’s not – please, please, please, Angel – please believe me when I tell you, it’s not – it’s not that I see you as – ”

“I know.” Aziraphale opened his eyes. “I know. I’m not – I’m not defiled. I know. I know. I know – I know we’re the same – you gave me that knowledge. I know. I know. I do know. I know.” Aziraphale was trembling. “But – but Crowley – it would – it would be – it would be hard – it would be hard, not to – not to – not to remember. Hard for both of us.” 

“Yes. It would be hard.” 

“Would you – would you want to – even though – even though it would be hard?” 

“Oh, Angel. Yes. Yes, I would. I would. But…I would be afraid of – of what – of what you might be – remembering.”

Aziraphale stared into the flames. “I am afraid. I am very much afraid. But I will not let them take that from us. I will not.” There was such steel in his voice that Crowley shivered.

Aziraphale shook himself. “But you are as traumatized as I am, Crowley. Perhaps more so. If you would be afraid of what I might be remembering, I would afraid of what you might be remembering.” 

Crowley swallowed. “As you say, it would be hard for both of us. But if you want to, then I want to.” 

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand. “It would be hard, but I think that – I think that with time, we could.” 

Crowley nodded.

“I want to make love to you, Crowley, and I want you to make love to me, in every possible way, and if you want it too, then we will find a way. We will find a way together. Not yet. But we will.”  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
  
_In Hell, the bookshop burned. Crowley ran through the flames, crying, “Aziraphale! Aziraphale! Where are you? I can’t find you. Where are you?”_

_Hastur laughed. “You’ll never find him.” He held the red-hot poker in his hands._

_“Please, no, please, no, please, no, please, no, please, no!” Crowley begged._

_Aziraphale held out his hands to be manacled. “I’m an angel. I cannot disobey.”_

_“Please don’t listen to them, Angel,” Crowley begged._

_Gabriel smiled. “For Heaven’s sake, we’re meant to make examples out of traitors.”_

_“Please listen to me,” Crowley begged. “All I ever did was ask questions. Please listen to me. Please.”_

_Satan tore up the rosebushes. “No one will ever listen to you, Crowley,” he said. “You ask too much.”_

_“Please don’t take him from me,” Crowley begged._

_The rosebushes were burning. “It’s over,” Aziraphale said. “I cannot disobey.” He turned away, stepped into the flames, and burned._

_“Please, no,” Crowley screamed._

  
“Crowley! Crowley! Crowley! It’s a nightmare. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.” 

Aziraphale was holding him. 

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Aziraphale. You were – you were – you were – oh, God,” Crowley sobbed. 

“It’s all right, my darling. I’m here. It was a nightmare. It’s all right. It’s all right, Crowley. It’s all right.”

“Aziraphale – ”

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I didn’t realize you had fallen asleep. I should have realized, I should have awakened you earlier, I’m sorry, Crowley, I’m so sorry. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

“Please don’t go, Aziraphale. Please don’t go.”

“I’m here, Crowley, and I’m not going anywhere. It’s all right, my darling. I’m here. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.”  
  
  
*** * *  
  
  
**The roses bloomed. None were perfect, but one was almost perfect, glistening with dew in the morning sun. Crowley picked it, and brought it to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took it and held it, with reverence. “Thank you, Crowley,” he said softly.  
  
  
*** * ***  
  
The summer came. On a hot day, they walked together in the woods. The light was green and gold. 

They came to a stream, edged with moss-covered rocks. They followed the stream as it grew wider, turning into a babbling brook, sunlight through the trees glinting on water and stone. They waded in the brook for a while, then continued walking beside it as it meandered downstream.

The brook entered a gorge and narrowed into a rushing stream, deep in the shadow of the trees above. They continued on and then saw sunlight ahead. The stream tumbled out of the gorge in a waterfall, and below the waterfall was a deep pool, twenty meters across, the surrounding forest reflected in the clear still water. In the shallows on the eastern side water lilies floated. In a hollow on the western side two willow trees grew close to each other, their branches intertwined. At the southern end of the pool there was another waterfall, and the brook continued onward, to where it would join the river, to where it would join the sea. 

They sat in the hollow under the willow trees. Dragonflies flitted in the sunlight above the pond.

“Let’s swim,” suggested Aziraphale.

They took off their clothes – no prudish humans around – and swam, reveling in the feeling of their bodies bathed in light and water. 

Crowley realized he had made an effort. One did that, swimming naked, without even realizing it. 

They climbed onto a rock and sat together in the sun. 

Aziraphale had made an effort, too. The dangly kind. Aziraphale usually (though not always) preferred the dangly kind. But now – now – after – after – _oh, God – oh, God –_ how would Aziraphale feel, now?

But Aziraphale didn’t seem to have noticed. 

Aziraphale was watching the dance of the dragonflies around them, an expression of joy and awe on his face. 

Aziraphale’s wet naked body shimmered in the sunlight. 

Crowley caught his breath. _He’s so beautiful_. Desire stirred in him, and he almost reached out, but…

…Aziraphale was diving back into the water.

They swam for a while more, and Crowley tried not to think about how graceful Aziraphale was when he dove off the rock…

Very suddenly, Aziraphale turned and swam to the edge of the pool, to the hollow under the willow trees. Crowley followed him.

Aziraphale was staring down at his own naked body, an odd expression on his face. _Oh, God._

“Crowley – ”

“I know, Sweetheart. It’s all right.”

Aziraphale started to get back in the water but stopped in the shallows, where the branches of the willow trees stroked the surface. “Crowley –”

“It’s all right, Sweetheart. It’s all right.” 

“Crowley, would you – would you – would you touch me?”

Crowley’s heart leapt, and then began to hammer in his chest. “Are – are you – are you sure?”

“Yes, please. If – if – if you – if you – if you want to?”

“I do. I do. If – if you – ”

“Yes, please.”

Crowley joined Aziraphale in the shallows, and, under the water, did as his husband asked. A light breeze stirred the leaves of the willow trees. “Is – is this – is this all right?”  
  
“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered. His voice was tight and his eyes were frightened, and yet there was a fragile, anxious hope there, too. “Yes. Is it – is it all right – with you?”

“Oh, Angel. Yes. Yes, it is all right. Do you – do you want to – do you want to touch me, too?”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale said. They explored each other, under the water, tentatively at first, and then with increasing passion, and –

– Aziraphale pulled away. He was shivering   
  
_Oh, God._ “Enough for now?” Crowley asked. _Please don’t let it have been too much. Please._

“I – I – ” Aziraphale was moving out of the water, back to the shelter of the willow trees. 

“Are you – are you all right?” Crowley asked.

“Yes, I – I – Crowley, would – would you – ” Aziraphale wasn’t looking at Crowley, but across the pond, to the water-lilies. 

A frog sat peacefully on a lily-pad, basking in the sun. 

“Would it be – would it be all right with you – would you be willing to – to – to put your finger inside me?” Aziraphale’s voice was shaking. 

_Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God._

_The sound Aziraphale made when – when –_ He fought off a wave of nausea. 

“Aziraphale – are you – are you – are you sure?”

“Yes. If – if you – if you would – if it would be all right – all right with – with you – if it would – if it would be all right with you?”

 _Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic._ He joined Aziraphale under the willows trees. “If you’re ready then, yes, it would – it would be all right with me. Are you – ”

Aziraphale was trembling. “Yes, please.” 

“Okay.” Crowley was trembling, too. _Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t –_

He drew a deep breath, miracled some oil and, carefully and gently, did as his husband asked. 

“Is this all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Aziraphale was still trembling. “Thank you, Crowley. Is it – is it – is all right – with you?” 

“Yes. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.” He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Aziraphale or himself. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right.” He put his other hand over Aziraphale's heart, beating like a frightened bird. 

Crowley concentrated on breathing, slowly, in, out, in, out, in, out – just keep breathing, just keep breathing, just keep breathing – slowly, slowly, slowly – just breathe, just breathe, just breathe – slowing his own pounding heartbeat, slowing, slowing, slowing…

“I gave you my blood,” Crowley whispered. “Our blood is the same. We’re the same. We’re together. In these soft, fragile, bodies. In this world. We’re together. We’re together. In these soft, fragile bodies. We’re together, Aziraphale. We’re together.”

Aziraphale’s breathing was matching his, Aziraphale’s breathing was slowing, Aziraphale’s heart rate was slowing, they were breathing together, slowly, their hearts were beating together, slowly, their breathing as one, their hearts beating as one…

…beating together, breathing together, beating together, breathing together, beating together, breathing together, slowly, gently, breathing as one, beating as one, breathing as one, beating as one, breathing as one, beating as one, as one, as one, as one…

…Aziraphale’s beloved heartbeat, under his hand, Aziraphale’s beloved body…

Aziraphale opened to him as a water-lily opening to the sun.

Crowley felt a joy he’d thought never to feel again. His heart began to beat faster again, not with fear, with desire – 

“Aziraphale,” he whispered. “Aziraphale,”

But Aziraphale drew in a shaky breath, and then was trembling again. “Crowley, perhaps – ”

 _Not yet. Not yet. Not yet._ He withdrew. “Are – are you – are you all right?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Let’s swim again.” 

“Okay.” They swam for a while. 

The sun was westering. The water-lilies were in shadow, and began to close. The water felt cold. 

They got out, and sat under the willow trees again. The wind whispered in the leaves. Somewhere in the woods, a song thrush sang. 

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand. Their scars touched. “Crowley, are you all right? Was that – was that too much for you?”

“I’m all right. Are you?”  
  
Aziraphale didn’t answer. He was looking at the leaves of the willow trees, alight in late afternoon sun.  
  
Crowley waited, worried.  
  
Aziraphale’s lips quivered. He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again.  
  
“Oh, Angel – ”  
  
“I – I – I – oh, Crowley – ” Aziraphale’s face crumpled and he moved into Crowley’s open arms.  
  
Crowley manifested his wings and wrapped them around his husband. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right” – then found himself crooning softly and nonsensically as he rubbed Aziraphale’s back and stroked his hair.  
  
“Please – please – ” Aziraphale buried his head in Crowley’s chest. He was sobbing.  
  
Crowley held Aziraphale in his arms as he cried and cried and cried.  
  
When Aziraphale stopped crying, Crowley kept holding him, as the afternoon faded into evening, as the sun set, as the golden light twined with silver in the dusk.

  
  
******  
  
  



End file.
